I'll Fly Away
by hellseries
Summary: Begins in 1981 with no Avengers in sight. Involves a very AU origin for Hawkeye, but will eventually intersect with both the movieverse and my series "Resilience". Be patient.
1. Chapter 1

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter One: Poor Wayfaring Stranger_

(Author's note: although this story is from the POV of an original character, features a wildly AU origin story for Hawkeye, and begins 31 years before the events of the movie, I promise it eventually becomes an Avengers fanfic. Bear with me.)

**Savannah, Georgia**

**August 1981**

I'd been hiding behind the oleanders since just after midnight. The mosquitoes were bad. I'd pulled on a sweatshirt and put socks over my hands and a bandana over my hair, but they still got my face and neck, and occasionally bit through my clothes.

I'd stopped crying after a couple hours. What was the use? It only made it more likely that somebody would hear me, and that would be the last disaster. I was tired, so tired my brain felt bruised, but I didn't dare go to sleep. So in my head I ran through every song I knew, every poem I could remember, bits and pieces of _Lord of the Rings,_ anything to keep me awake and not hysterical.

Around me slept the campus of Armstrong State College, and around it the city of Savannah. A hundred and forty thousand people, of whom I knew exactly four. Three of those were my parents and my little sister, and I was never going to see them again. The fourth was the person I was waiting to see, as soon as the sun came up and the building was unlocked.

I played the Aragorn name game._ His true name, Aragorn son of Arathorn. Isildur's Heir. Estel. Elessar, the elfstone and the renewer. Strider. Longshanks. Dunadan, man of the West. Wingfoot. Telcontar, Elvish for "Strider"._

Three days ago I'd been inside this building talking to an admissions counselor. Her name was Rachel Barton. She seemed really nice. In a few more hours I would find out how nice.

_Many are my names...Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkun to the Dwarves; Olorin in my youth in the West, in the South Incanus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not._

Holy God, I was thirsty. I wish I'd thought to stuff a couple of Cokes in my backpack. But with ten minutes to cram in one bag everything you get to take with you from your entire previous life, your choices get a little random. None of my books; those are replaceable, or I can probably find most of them in the library. Mostly clothes; I have to have those every day. All my money, of course, two twenties, a five, three ones, and the change in my piggy bank. My address book. The little photo album I'd put my favorites into, to keep with me when we moved so I wouldn't have to wait till everything was unpacked to show my new friends where I'd come from. That seemed almost funny now.

_All that is gold does not glitter / Not all those who wander are lost; / The old that is strong does not wither, / Deep roots are not reached by the frost. / From the ashes a fire shall be woken; / A light from the shadows shall spring; / Renewed shall be blade that was broken; / And crownless again shall be king._

A grey light was gradually seeping into the sky. Not much longer now.

I'd forgotten to bring my toothbrush.

_Tall ships and tall kings, / Three times three: / What brought they from the foundered land / Over the flowing sea? / Seven stars and seven stones / And one white tree._

I'd drawn the White Tree on the cover of my diary. Mama wouldn't let me have it back. She claimed she was going to burn it. I kind of hoped she would. Daddy might or might not "beat me within an inch of my life" (her words) if he read it; but I wasn't planning to give him the option. Mama contented herself with one hard slap that bounced my head off the doorframe, and a ten-minute deadline to get out of her house. Too bad I wasn't a big enough nerd to keep my diary in Elvish. Damned if I'd ever keep another one, in any language.

_Above all shadows rides the Sun / And stars forever dwell; / I will not say the day is done, / nor bid the stars farewell. _It goes pretty well to the tune of "In Christ There Is No East Or West."

Tolkien was a Catholic, of course. He'd probably be horrified that someone like me was taking comfort in his words. He'd be on my parents' side, though God knows Mama and Daddy wouldn't claim a Catholic as a fellow-Christian. Still, you take comfort where you can find it. Which is what got me into this mess.

The sun was up now. I took the socks off my hands, took the bandana off my head and finger-combed my hair, which had gotten a certain amount of sand, twigs and spiderwebs into it. I looked around to make sure nobody was in sight before I slipped out from behind the bushes. I sat down on a bench and tried to look like a normal person who'd just gotten up early. In the early morning chill I was cold even with the sweatshirt, mostly since I was still damp from sweating. I'd walked for hours, in the evening when it was still hot. I stank.

I wondered what my parents were telling Diane about where I'd gone. I wondered if she'd believe them. At six, I don't think it had occurred to me that parents could lie.

A custodian came by with a big wad of keys at the end of a long chain on his belt. He unlocked the building. I nodded to him; he nodded back and went on his way.

Once he'd left, I got up and strolled up the steps and through the door. I wandered around a little till I'd found the admissions office (still closed) and the women's restroom (open). I took a quick wash in the sink, changed my shirt, used the toilet, and fixed my hair a little better, using a real comb from my purse. I had a goddamn black eye. Great. I found I could mostly hide it by combing my hair over to that side and letting it hang in my face. There was nothing I could do about the bug bites. At a distance they looked like zits. Ugly, but acceptable. I scanned my reflection again.

_Get your hair out of your face, honey, you're too pretty to hide like that_, said Mama's voice in my head, and I started crying again. Shit.

Luckily nobody came in during the time it took me to get hold of myself, blow my nose (a lot) and wash my face in cold water. Eyes still red, but what the hell. It was the best I was going to get. I drank several double-handfuls of water from the sink. Some better. I stuffed some extra toilet paper in my pocket in case I broke down again.

I stepped back out in the hall and walked down to the admissions office. I found a copy of the student paper, the Inkwell, and sat on the floor with it. I read every word twice over, even the classifieds, and finally dug a pencil stub out of my backpack to do the crossword puzzle. I was almost done with it when the secretary came to open up.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I kept my head down like I was in the world crossword puzzle championship, with the clock ticking. "I'm waiting on Ms. Barton," I said.

"She'll be in around eight. Do you have an appointment?"

"No ma'am," I said, "But I talked to her the other day at orientation, and she said come by if I had questions."

"Okay," she said. "You can come in and wait for her inside."

"Thanks," I said, and followed her in. I sat in one of the plastic chairs, tucked my backpack between my feet and tried to look like I belonged there. Like a college student. I'd been so close. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying again. _A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna miriel, o galadhremmin ennorath, na-chaered palan-diriel... Tolkien, you old sucker, it's easy to make things rhyme when you get to make up the language._

"Good morning, LaShonda."

"Good morning, Ms. Barton. Someone to see you." I looked up, then remembered the black eye and looked back down again.

"Come on in," said Ms. Barton, and opened the door to her office. I took a deep breath and followed her in.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, setting down her purse and her briefcase.

"My name's Jeannine Dupree. I talked to you back during orientation."

"Oh yes. I remember you."

"This is kind of weird but..." I took another deep breath. "But I'm in trouble and I don't know anybody else in town. We just moved here. Last night my mama threw me out of the house. I was hoping you could tell me where to go."

"Are you all right?" she asked, looking at me keenly. I was sure she wasn't missing much: black eye, bug bites, grimy clothes, probably some spiderwebs.

"I had kind of a rough night," I said.

"I imagine so," she said. "How old are you?"

"Just turned seventeen last month."

She frowned. "That makes things difficult."

I nodded. "Yes ma'am."

"Do you have any relatives or friends you could stay with?"

"No ma'am. Like I said, we just moved here. I don't have any family closer than North Carolina, and those are just cousins. I barely know them." _And they'd be on her side too,_ I thought, but didn't share that with the nice lady.

"Where did you spend the night?" she asked.

I considered several bullshit stories, but in the end I was too tired to be smart, so I just said, "Hiding in the bushes, waiting for somebody to open up the building."

"How did you get the black eye?"

"Mama slapped me," I said. "She didn't hit me all that hard. She just slapped me, but it knocked me into the door frame. It's not as bad as it looks."

That seemed to push her over some kind of line. She picked up her purse and briefcase. "Come with me," she said, and led the way back out into the main office.

"LaShonda," she said, "something's come up. An emergency. Reschedule my appointments for the morning. I should be back by noon."

"All right," said the secretary. She didn't even look surprised. Did this happen often?

"Come on," said Ms. Barton. I followed her out of the building and around back to the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Right now, we're going to my house to get you a shower and some breakfast and a nap," she said. "While you're doing that, I'll be making some phone calls."

"I don't mean to put you to all this trouble," I said. "If you can just tell me where-"

"We'll get to that," she said. "First things first."

"I have some money," I said.

"You hold on to that for now," she said. "I can afford breakfast and a shower."

"Yes ma'am," I said meekly. "Thank you." I might as well take what I could get while the getting was good.

Ms. Barton's house turned out to be a nice grey ranch-style in a neighborhood of similar houses, with big old oak trees draped with Spanish moss all over the place. There was no other car in the carport; did she live alone? She did have a wedding ring. Maybe Mr. Barton was at work.

The door from the carport opened into the kitchen. A kid was sitting at the kitchen table, eating Froot Loops and reading. From the short standing-up sandy hair, I guessed it was a boy. The book was _The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_. Howard Pyle. I felt a twinge. I'd loved that book when I was little. I'd been thinking about reading it to Diane when we finished _Dr. Doolittle_.

"Hi Clint. Come out from behind the book for a minute," said Ms. Barton. "Jeannine, this is my son. He actually has fairly nice manners when he's not reading."

"What does 'buxom' mean?" the kid asked, still reading. Ms. Barton was looking in the refrigerator and either ignored him or didn't hear him.

"It means, um, with big bosoms," I said, and blushed. Possibly more than this nice lady wanted her son to know.

The kid lowered his book and looked at me with interest. "Thanks," he said. He looked about ten. "What happened to your eye?" he asked.

"None of your business," said his mother firmly.

He shrugged and went back to his book, but I caught him glancing at me occasionally from behind the pages.

"Jeannine, we have cereal, eggs, bacon, grits and oatmeal. The grits and oatmeal are instant. We have bread for toast. There's orange juice and milk, or I could make you some coffee."

"Cereal's fine, ma'am. I'm not a big coffee fan. If you'll show me where things are, I can wait on myself."

She ignored this and started putting things on the table: Cheerios, Raisin Bran, a gallon of milk, a carton of juice, and after a moment's hesitation, the Froot Loops. She pulled a bowl, spoon and glass from the dishwasher, still warm and steaming slightly.

I settled on Cheerios, though if I'd been by myself I'd have gone for the Froot Loops. I was uncomfortably conscious of being a strange almost-grownup in this kid's house. Awkward. But probably it wouldn't be for long. I ate as fast as I could without looking like a pig. I'd forgotten how long it had been since I'd eaten. No wonder I'd felt like crap. I hadn't gotten any dinner, since Mama had thrown me out as soon as I got home yesterday evening. And I'd probably walked ten or twelve miles in the course of the night.

"Can I get you anything else?" Ms. Barton said.

"No ma'am, I'm fine, thank you," I said, and carried my dirty dishes to the sink. I started to wash them but she stopped me.

"I'll get those. Come with me, I'll show you the bathroom. Do you have a change of clothes with you?"

I nodded.

"All right. You get a shower and clean clothes, and I'll find out what our options are," she said.

'Our' options? That made me a little nervous. I didn't actually know this woman at all. She hadn't asked me why I'd gotten thrown out; if I told her the truth, how would she react? But what lie could I tell her, that wouldn't make her either call the cops or send me back home? She had our address and phone number, after all; it was all on my application. Probably she'd send me back home anyway. I started thinking about how to avoid getting the crap beaten out of me if that happened.

Their bathroom was nice, with thick dark-blue towels and no rust stains in the shower. Plenty of hot water too, and two different kinds of shampoo (Clairol Herbal Essence and Batman. Easy to tell whose was whose. I went with the girly stuff. Did Mr. Barton use Batman shampoo? Maybe he was bald.)

Clean hair, dear God. One of the blessings of this life. _A loon is he who will not sing, / O, water hot is a noble thing!_

I snuck some of their toothpaste and brushed my teeth with my finger. A hell of a lot better than nothing. They had red mouthwash. Cinnamon flavored. Tasted like red hots. I felt almost human, but now that I was clean and fed I was yawning my head off.

"Feeling better?" Ms. Barton asked me as I came out of the bathroom.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and yawned again.

"Good. I made up the sofa bed for you. Why don't you catch a couple hours' sleep, and then we'll discuss what to do next."

I was too tired to argue. I followed her into the room with the folded-out sofa bed and oh, God in heaven, a whole entire wall of bookshelves. How was I ever going to get any sleep in here? I tried not to stare as I shoved my backpack under the bed part of the sofa and climbed in.

Art books. A whole shelf of Time-Life Books about history and nature. The fattest dictionary I'd ever seen. (I unwrapped my hair and spread the towel on the pillow to protect it from the wet.) Paperbacks, looked like novels. Some romancey-looking pastel ones, and some darker-colored ones that were maybe detective stories. And oh, God, science fiction and fantasy. Clifford Simak. Andre Norton. Fritz Leiber. Anne McCaffrey. Tolkien, of course. C.S. Lewis.

I yawned again, so hard I felt like my head would split at the jawline. I gave up and lay down. No way would I be here long enough to read even one book, and it would be worse to leave one half-read than not to start at all.

It seemed like I'd barely shut my eyes when a tapping at the door woke me up again.

"Jeannine? I'm sorry to wake you up, but we have some decisions to make," said Ms. Barton. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My hair was half-dry and all tangles. I must have slept for a while after all.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"About 11:30," she said. Almost three hours. I could have slept another twelve. And where the hell would I sleep tonight?

"Coming," I said. "Let me comb my hair."

Ms. Barton was waiting for me at her kitchen table by the time I got my hair combed and tied back with my rolled-up bandana. I looked around, but didn't see her son anywhere.

"Clint's staying at a friend's house for the day," Ms. Barton said. "We'll have some privacy. Now. Can you tell me what happened last night between you and your mother?"

Might as well get it over with. Dee, my camp counselor, said that one thing about telling the truth is it makes it easier to keep your story straight.

"Mama read my diary and found out I had a girlfriend," I said. "She gave me ten minutes to get out of the house, and she said if I ever came back Daddy would beat me black and blue."

"Do you believe her?"

"Yes ma'am, I do."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes ma'am. I have a little sister named Diane. She's six."

"Do you think she's in danger?"

"No ma'am. She hasn't done anything wrong."

"How about your girlfriend? Is she at risk?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. I didn't call her by name in the diary. Mama and Daddy don't know her. I met her—we met at church camp." The sorry, sick humor of that hit me hard in the gut and I put my head down on my arms and clenched my teeth and swore I would die before I would cry in this stranger lady's kitchen.

"Is she likely to write to you?"

"No ma'am," I said without raising my head. "She doesn't have my address here. I hadn't sent it to her yet." And I thanked God and all his angels, even if they didn't want to be thanked by somebody like me.

"All right. Well, we can't send you home. I'd rather not turn you over to Child Protective Services. And you can't stay here."

"I understand that, ma'am." I sat up straight and tried not to look pitiful.

She looked at me sharply. "No, I don't think you do. Let me explain. Probably the best solution for you is to get a court to declare you an emancipated minor—that means that even though you're not eighteen yet, you're able to take care of yourself like an adult and you're no longer under your parents' control. It's something that can happen automatically, say if you got married or joined the army before you turned eighteen. But it can also be done with a court order. It's easier if your parents agree to it, but it can also be done against their objections if the court feels it's not in your best interests to live at home."

I nodded.

"You've already been accepted at Armstrong; you're a mature and responsible young lady. That's a good start. But you need a place to stay and a means of supporting yourself—a job, not public assistance. One thing you can't do is just get someone to take you in; they could be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor. In your case, getting taken in by a single woman could look suspicious, especially to someone as narrow-minded as your parents."

"But you're married."

"I'm widowed."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's all right. How could you know? But in any case, that's the only reason I'm not offering to have you stay with us. I don't want to hurt your chances in court, and I'd also like to stay out of trouble myself, if possible."

"Yes ma'am."

"I've been talking to some people at Armstrong. Student housing tells me they have an empty dorm room they can put you up in for the quarter. Financial Aid keeps a fund for emergencies; they can pay your tuition for the quarter. And I think we can get you a work-study job to cover your room and board, with maybe enough left over for books."

"You mean I can still go to college?"

"Damn straight you can, young lady. It's your best ticket out of this mess." She glanced at the clock, now showing five till twelve. "Get your things together. I have to get back to my office. I'll take you to talk to some people in counseling and testing."

I scrambled under the sofa for my shoes and backpack, then trailed her to the car and climbed in.

"One more thing," she said. "I had a hunch that your parents might be hiding something. They didn't want to give us their former address. But I had LaShonda look back in your file and she found a query letter you'd sent us last year with a return address on it." She looked embarrassed. "I called the police department in Calhoun. They told me your parents had several domestic disturbance calls on record."

I bit my lip. We're not supposed to talk about things like that. With anybody. Especially not strangers.

"I apologize for investigating without asking you," said Ms. Barton. "But I think it's important that we have that information, in case your parents try to make you look like a runaway."

I nodded. "Yes ma'am."

She buckled her seat belt, started the car, and took me...home.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Two: City Called Heaven_

**[Author's Note: Chapters Two and Three are quiet, with few major incidents and not much Clint. Trust me for a little while longer. All of that is going to change in Chapter Four.]**

I took to college like a duck to water. I laughed inside every time I heard my classmates griping. I had a clean room with a comfortable bed and air conditioning. There was decent food on the table, three times a day. The power, water and phone always worked. I could have a shower every single day, and best of all there was an entire library I could walk to, with more books than I could possibly read.

In the meantime, I was putting together my petition for emancipation. It was fairly easy, with Rachel's help, except for two things: getting a certified copy of my birth certificate, and getting my parents not to object.

The first problem was that I had no idea what county I'd been born in. I was fairly sure it was somewhere in Georgia, but Georgia has 159 counties, and my family was given to moving around a lot. Daddy had trouble keeping a job sometimes; "Take This Job and Shove It" was sort of his theme song. He wasn't great at taking orders, and he was even worse at admitting he'd done anything wrong. As for apologizing, he didn't see the difference between that and "crawling", and he wasn't about to do either.

Mama worked, sometimes, but Daddy felt like that was a judgment on him, that he wasn't "man enough" to be a good provider. So usually he complained until she quit. I had mixed feelings about that. When she was working, she always held back some money to buy us things. Daddy didn't feel like we needed books, or new clothes, or any kind of food he didn't like himself. On the other hand, when she was working, there was nobody to take care of Diane if she got sick and couldn't go to nursery school—except me. And yes, my little sister was more important than me going to school, but I wasn't her mother.

I was afraid to call and ask about the birth certificate. Right up until she threw me out, I'd have said Mama would do anything for me; and in the blink of an eye I'd turned from her flesh and blood to something she'd scrape off the bottom of her shoe. Daddy hadn't cared all that much for me to begin with; he'd have liked to have a son, but he was stuck with us. And of course he'd have done all kinds of great things if it weren't for "these damn kids." I could only imagine how he'd react if I asked him for help. Mama saw me as an offense against God and a threat to Diane's innocence; for Daddy, religion and kids were women's business, but having a daughter who was a lezzie was something his drinking buddies would never let him live down. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

Luckily, Rachel found me a lawyer who was willing to give some time _pro bono. _Mr. Jordan wrote up a letter to send my parents, asking them to cooperate with my emancipation petition, and pointing out that if they didn't, they could be charged with abandonment—or I could be returned to them, under court supervision due to the threat of violence. They went back and forth for a while, mostly by mail, plus a couple of phone calls. Eventually Mama and Daddy said they'd send me a copy of my birth certificate, and they'd agree to the petition—for a price. The price was that I would never attempt to contact them or Diane. And that, they said, was their final offer.

So I gave up my baby sister to buy my own freedom and safety.

I packaged everything up neatly: proof of my work-study job in the cafeteria, proof of residence in the dorm, proof that my job and my Pell grant and the institutional scholarship would cover my expenses while I was enrolled; a statement from my counselor, that I was emotionally stable; a statement from each of my professors, that I was responsible and a good student. And I sent it to the judge. And the judge said "granted."

And so I found myself in Rivendell, in Avalon, in the Isles of the Blest, where nobody ever hit me. Not even once. Better yet, nobody told me I was stupid, or lazy, or ugly, or that their problems were all my fault and I'd never amount to anything.

Yeah, I got teased and harrassed; for being a girl, for being country, for being poor, and after I cut my hair and went all blue jeans all the time, for being a dyke. Compared to what I was used to, it didn't even register. For the first time in my life I knew what the rules were at the beginning of the game, and they didn't change while I wasn't looking. Go to class, listen to the discussion, do the reading, ask questions, do the assignments, take the test. _Learn_, all you can hold as fast as you can get hold of it. God damn I was enjoying myself.

I could read anything I wanted, listen to any music I wanted. I got up and went to work in the cafeteria at 6 in the morning, went to class at 9, back to work at 4, back to the dorm by 9. If I did the work right I got told "good job". If I did the work wrong, somebody showed me how to do it right. I worked 6 to 3 straight on Saturday and got the whole day off on Sunday to study, or read, or sleep, or whatever the hell I wanted. I got _paid_. I got paid every damn nickel I was owed—no excuses, no having to beg, no 'next month maybe'. It was _easy_.

And somewhere out there my baby sister was still stuck with a bitter, narrow-minded mother and an angry, woman-hating father, in a crappy duplex where the heat might be shut off in winter and milk was too expensive to pour out just because it was a little sour. I dreamed of rescuing her. Sometimes I dreamed I got there too late.

The other cloud in my sky was that when I wrote LeeAnn to tell her what had happened when my folks had found out about her, her reply was "I think it's better if we don't see each other any more." I couldn't really blame her. If her parents were anything like mine, it was way too much of a risk for a little snuggling in the dark. I hoped she'd find some way to be happy.

I never darkened the door of a church. After a stomach-churning couple of weeks I found I didn't miss it. I did not, however, lose my faith. It changed. Darkened. Became something not less certain, but less defined. Like walking a causeway through a swamp at night; I couldn't see it, but there it was, solid, under my feet.

It was the second week of November when I got a note from Rachel Barton in my campus mailbox. _Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?_ it said. _If not, would you like to spend it with us? Drop by my office & let me know._

I thought about it on my way to class. Now that I was emancipated, there was no longer any reason not to spend time with Rachel. It might be nice to actually get to know her now that I no longer needed rescuing. Besides, anyone who'd read that collection of books in her spare room was clearly worth talking to. And Clint seemed like a cool kid.

There was just time between my last class and work to scoot by the admissions office. I stuck my head in the door just as she was packing up to go home. "Ms. Barton? I'd love to come for Thanksgiving. What can I bring?"

She smiled. "Actually, the best thing you could bring would be a pair of hands to help me in the kitchen. What time are you free that Wednesday evening?"

"About four, I think," I said.

"Good. Meet me here and I'll give you a ride. You're welcome to spend a few nights, too, unless you have other plans."

"That sounds great," I said. I had talked to my RA about getting permission to stay in the dorm, but this would be a lot less lonesome.

"Wonderful. See you a week from Wednesday."

It felt good to be a guest instead of a refugee. This time I had my toothbrush, a backpack full of clean clothes, and a couple of books I planned to lend Clint and Rachel in exchange for some of theirs. Even the library didn't entirely cure my itch for their bookshelves. I love seeing what other people read. (My family had the Bible, a pile of old Guideposts, one beat-up Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, a half-dozen Little Golden Books for Diane, most with teethmarks on the corners, and the rest of the books were mine. Probably burned by now as suspected occult materials, since half of them had dragons or wizards in them.)

Clint, glory be, had not yet read _The Dark Is Rising_. Rachel had already read _The Immense Journey_ and _A Sand County Almanac_, but she hadn't gotten around to _The Mismeasure of Man_.

(I had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I totally bought Gould's argument that 'intelligence testing' is a pretty fishy concept; but on the other hand, without some kind of abstract 'proof' that I was smart, nobody would ever have let me into college. I still had the lingering fear that I tested smarter than I was, but I was willing to take that unfair advantage if it would get me access to an education.)

Wednesday night in Rachel's kitchen was, at the same time, like the best parts of my childhood and like being an adult in adult company. Surrounded by warmth, light and fragrance (I had never even heard of half the things in her spice rack, and they all smelled amazing), I rolled up my sleeves and began learning to make yeast bread. Rachel supervised while she made the cranberry sauce.

"Does this look right?" I asked. "I'm not sure what they mean by 'smooth and springy'."

"It should feel like your earlobe," Rachel said.

I laughed. "Okay, that's different," I said, and promptly got flour all over my earlobe while comparing.

Clint wandered through the kitchen and snagged an orange. He sat down and began peeling it without looking up from his (my) book, which he laid in his lap and held open with his left elbow.

"Clint Barton, don't you dare get orange juice all over that book," said his mother.

"I'm not," he said without looking up.

Rachel rolled her eyes and tossed a dishtowel onto the table beside him. "You're about to, unless you can turn pages with your elbow," she said.

He rolled his eyes exactly like she had. "Okay, point," he said, and set the orange down, wiped his hands dry, turned the page, and kept going.

The cooking frenzy continued the next day after a breakfast of French toast. (I'd just started taking French, and was pleased to learn that the original name was _pain perdu,_ and what it meant. How can something intended as a way to get rid of stale bread be that good?) Clint was surprisingly helpful about washing dishes, but considering that every time he washed a few he filched a freshly-baked roll or a bit of turkey skin, it probably turned out a pretty good deal for him.

Dinner was in the early afternoon and we all ate until we were nearly comatose. I was the first to lever myself up off the couch. "I'll do the dishes this time," I said. "Y'all sit still. Anybody want coffee or anything?"

Rachel said yes to coffee. Clint just groaned and clutched his stomach.

Most of the people I grew up with either watched sports on TV or went hunting (if male), or cleaned up the kitchen and gossiped (if female) after Thanksgiving dinner. At Rachel's there wasn't that much cleanup with only the three of us. We watched "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" on videotape (I never get tired of watching Snoopy wrestle that folding chair) and then Clint went out in the backyard with his high powered slingshot. (It's called a Wrist Rocket; the elastic is rubber tubing and there's a brace that goes on your forearm so you can use a stronger elastic than you could if you had to hold your wrist straight.)

"Whatcha huntin'?" I asked in my best good-ol'-boy drawl.

"Squirrels," he said. "But not to kill them. I killed a couple when I first started, but then I decided that was unneccesary."

"What, you don't like Brunswick Stew?" I asked. He made a face.

"So now I just see how close I can get without hitting them," he said.

The answer to that was, pretty damn close. I was impressed. The squirrels jumped like they had a hotfoot every time one of his steel ball-bearings hit the ground or the tree bark right by their feet or tails. As far as I could tell he never touched one of them.

I started calling him "Robin Hood". He didn't object, though he did roll his eyes. He gave me back _The Dark is Rising_ with thanks (he'd finished it right before dinner) and his eyes lit up when I told him there were four more in the series.

For my part, I got through _The Crystal Cave_ and _The Hollow Hills _over the long weekend, and Rachel let me take _The Last Enchantment_ home with me. Plus a bag full of rolls, which made me very popular the first night back in the dorm.

The week after Thanksgiving, I saw a group of people out in front of the library, dressed up like they were putting on "Camelot". I stopped to watch. Half a dozen were dancing to the music of some kind of wooden flute and a tambourine. Every once in a while a guy in a long green cloak with crossed yellow trumpets on it would yell "Oyez, oyez," and announce the names of two men, who would then start whaling on each other with wooden swords. They had real armor; some wore leather reinforced with metal strips, and others actual chain mail. It jingled when they moved. Their helmets looked like they'd been cut down from oxygen tanks. (Actually, they were made from freon cans, I later learned; and the swords were made of rattan, the same stuff you make papasan chair frames out of—like bamboo, but not hollow.) I was fascinated.

I stopped to talk to Trumpet Guy in between fights. He was so enthusiastic he was almost scary; a bright-eyed, fast-talking, weedy little black guy with gold-rimmed glasses. "We're the Society for Creative Anachronism," he said. "An anachronism is something out of place in time."

(I didn't tell him I already knew that. I wasn't sure I could get a word in edgewise.)

"We re-create the Middle Ages as they should have been. That means I can wear my glasses, and we use flush toilets, and women can fight if they want to, and instead of almost everybody being peasants we all start out as gently-born—though you can be a peasant if you want to!—and you can work your way up to the peerage, that's like being a knight for fighting, or a Laurel for the arts, or a Pelican for service." He paused for breath.

"How much does it cost?" I asked.

"Fifteen dollars a year," he said.

"Will you take a check?" I said. He grinned and took me over to a table with membership forms.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"My mundane name is Jackson Lewis, but in the Society I'm Lord Randall of White Buck Forest," he said.

"Pleased to meet you, milord," I said. "I hight Jeannine, but I expect I'll find something fancier for use in your noble realm."

He grinned even wider. "Welcome, milady," he said. "I think you're going to fit right in."

And so in addition to becoming an honorary adult and a college student, I became Fiona of Darkling Wood, an herbalist and a healer, and I found my people.

Christmas break, the dorms were closed for three weeks. Rachel invited me to stay with them, and again I accepted. I was still a little giddy with the SCA. I bought Clint a hardback _Le Morte D'Arthur_, and Rachel an album called _Medieval Roots_ that Jackson had played for me. I of course didn't have a record player, so at least half my reason for giving it to her was so I could hear it again myself. Fortunately she liked it too. Clint dove straight into Camelot right after breakfast on Christmas morning and barely came up for air for the rest of the week. At first he asked for definitions every few minutes, but after a couple of days he seemed to adjust to relying on context.

Their gifts to me were lovely: Rachel gave me six yards of deep-green velvet and the use of her sewing machine. Clint's contribution was a leather belt he'd tooled himself, stamped with an oak-leaf design. I think he got some kind of leathercraft badge for it in Scouts; it was good work, and it looked great with my houppelande when I finally finished it.

I tried not to think about what I would have given Diane, or what kind of Christmas she was having, wherever she was. I'd ridden past the duplex with Jackson and some other SCA friends one day, and what had been our half had a "For Rent" sign out front. Apparently my folks had moved on again.

School started back for winter quarter. I got promoted to assistant cafeteria manager. I joined the choir. That first concert was all spirituals, and that music reached straight into my heart and tore it open. There are some kinds of joy you only get to through pain and loss, and the people who made up those songs knew that.

I couldn't go to many SCA events—my job normally required me to work Saturdays—but I managed to wangle a couple. The only thing better than college. A good many guys hit on me, but they were pretty good about taking "no" for an answer. Some girls hit on me, and some of them took "yes" for an answer even more gracefully. I sang, I danced, I learned to shoot a bow and play a recorder and spin with a drop spindle. I felt at home.

Spring Coronation rolled around. Rachel and Clint went with me. Rachel was stunning in a borrowed gown of black-and-red sculptured velvet that laced up the sides. It set off her dark hair and grey eyes; she had no shortage of partners for dancing, feasting or conversation. Clint resolutely said "no" to tights but looked pretty dashing in his Robin Hood hat and suede jerkin, worn over khakis. And when he tried out the archery range, he fell completely in love. Not unrequited love either. After the first round, he hit the target every time, and every round his pattern got a little tighter. The other archers took notice, and started trying to recruit him for the upcoming war between the South Downs and Iron Mountain. He grinned and said he'd ask his mom. (It turned out he was too young to fight; the rules set a minimum age of 14. He did get invited to the Kingdom Archery Competition, though.)

In the Bardic Circle that night, a smooth-voiced man from Trimaris sang the tale of Sir Bedivere, charged by the dying Arthur to return his sword to the Lady of the Lake. I glanced across the fire at Clint. There were tears in his eyes. He saw me looking and turned away, brushing his arm across his face angrily. I waited till the song was done (I got misty myself, at the end), then caught his eye again and jerked my head in the direction of the lake. I got up and left the circle. He followed.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," I said, as we walked down the dimly-lit path.

He shrugged.

"Loyalty is important," I said. "A lot of people don't get that."

He said nothing.

"It's important to have someone you know will do the right thing for you, when you—" my voice broke. I sat down on the dock and wrapped my arms around my knees and tried again. "When you can't do for yourself."

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"I'll be all right," I said. "Today's my sister's birthday. I don't know where she is."

He sat down beside me. "I didn't know you had a sister."

"I do. She's seven. I'm not allowed to see her."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

He gave a world-weary sigh that said clearly that he was used to hearing that conversation stopper.

"No, okay," I said. "Here's the thing. You remember when your mom brought me home that time?"

"Yeah."

"My mom threw me out of the house. Because I'm a lesbian; that means I'm attracted to other women. I can't go back."

"You had a black eye," he said.

"My mom smacked me into the doorframe," I said. "Anyway. We did some legal stuff so I can live by myself, but I'm not allowed to see my sister ever again. Or my parents either, but I'm not all that broke up about them."

He pondered this. "Can't you, like, check up on her without them knowing? Like, from a distance, or ask Mom to do it for you?"

"They moved. I don't know where they went."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

We were silent for a while.

"What's her name?" he asked me.

"Diane."

Another long silence.

"That Bedivere song," he said. "You know what I like about it?"

"What's that?"

"It wasn't easy for him. Just like in the book."

"Good point," I said.

"You should learn it," he said.

"I probably will," I said. "Got the chorus already." We sat a while longer. "You should get a bow and arrows," I said.

"I definitely will," he said. "Easy merit badge."

"You're not fooling anyone, Robin Hood," I said. "You want to see if you can split an arrow." I'd watched him earlier, closely following an impassioned discussion between two of the archers on the feasibility of the trick.

I couldn't see his face in the dark, but I heard the smile as he said, "Oh, I know I can do it. The only question is, how long will it take me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Three: No Hiding Place_

[Author's note: I've taken considerable liberties with the SCA, but it's a real organization full of good people.]

**March, 1983 **

In the spring of my sophomore year I began taking flying lessons.

I'd seen a classified ad in the Morning News from someone looking for a house- and pet-sitter over Spring Break. I'd called and asked about it; and that was how I met Stavros Ioannides.

Jackson, the only one of my school friends who owned a car, gave me a ride. The address turned out to be an old Airstream trailer surrounded by a fenced, bare-dirt yard full of huge, hairy mixed-breed dogs. It seemed like there were a dozen of them, all lunging and barking.

"I'm staying in the car," Jackson said firmly. I didn't blame him.

I wondered whether I dared go in and try to make it to the door. Luckily, the dogs' owner heard the commotion and came out. "Dogs! Sit!" he bellowed in a deep bass, and miraculously the dogs instantly fell silent and dropped to their haunches in unison. As it turned out there were only five of them. Their owner turned to me. "You Jeannine?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said firmly.

"Hmph," he said. "Come on in. Your friend coming with you?"

"No sir, he's just giving me a ride today."

"Hmph." He opened the gate. The dogs, except for a little tail-waving and ear-perking, didn't move. I stepped in and followed him up the steps into the trailer. As he opened the door to the house, he said "Okay!" over his shoulder to the dogs. They all jumped up and started milling around, but none of them barked. He waved me through the door and followed, shutting it behind him. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a linoleum-topped table and two vinyl chairs. I sat. He sat.

He was a balding, slightly stooped, deeply tanned man, only a little taller than me but a lot heavier. Not fat, but built like a fireplug. His hair and eyebrows were nearly white, in stark contrast to his mahogany skin. He was several shades lighter around the edges of his t-shirt neck and sleeves.

"You scared of dogs?" he asked, with a scowl.

"No sir," I said.

"Hmph. Okay. I fly planes. I have a job coming up, take some rich tourists around the Virgin Islands. Be gone eight days. I need somebody to stay here, feed dogs, clean up after them. Take them to the vet if they get sick; probably not gonna happen, but just in case. I have a guy usually does this, but he broke his leg. Think you can do it?"

"Yes sir," I said.

"I pay ten dollars a day. You can use the kitchen, TV, washer, dryer, just clean up after yourself. No long distance phone calls. No guests. The vet has my credit card, so if any dogs need to go to the vet, you don't have to pay. You don't have a car?"

"No sir."

"Dixie Cab will take pets. I'll leave money for that in case. I'll show you where the dog food is, where the water hose is, and where you dump the dog shit. Feed and water twice a day. Clean the yard every other day. Any questions?"

"Can I read your books, if I put them back where I got them?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"And do you give flying lessons?"

The scowl came back. "Not to girls."

"Why not?"

He scowled harder. "Name a woman pilot."

I was drawing breath to say "Amelia Earhart" when a little bell went off in the back of my head. Instead I said, "Jeana Yeager."

"Name another one."

"Osa Johnson."

"Another."

"Bessie Coleman."

His scowl was gone, replaced by a sardonic smile. "Another."

"Anne Morrow Lindbergh."

"One more and I take you as a student."

"Valentina Tereshkova."

"She didn't fly planes, but I let you get away with her. Why you don't say 'Amelia Earhart'?"

I shrugged. "She's mainly famous for disappearing."

He glared at me. "I don't teach people who want to be Amelia Earhart."

I nodded. "Landings should equal takeoffs," I said.

And thus began a beautiful friendship.

I started reading for ground school while I was dogsitting that first week. When Stavros came back, he was pleased with my work. His dogs were all complete mushballs for anybody with food; I discovered they also really liked attention, and I found brushes and combs tucked under the sink. By the time he got home they were very well-groomed mushballs.

Stavros cut me a deal on the flying lessons. I would work for him on Sundays; as soon as I'd accumulated enough hours to equal one lesson, I'd get a lesson. At first I was just sweeping, filing, and cleaning the office (a long-overdue task), but after a couple weeks he had me hosing down planes.

Spring quarter ended; I signed up for a minimum courseload over the summer so I could stay in the dorm, but instead of keeping my work-study job in the cafeteria I went to work for Stavros full time: answering the phone, putting up flyers for his flight school around campus, and learning to do light maintenance work. The more routine chores I was able to take over for him, the more time he could spend on instruction and charters. He paid me eight bucks an hour in addition to the lessons. I bought a used bike, and by about mid-July I was in pretty good shape from cycling back and forth between school and work.

What can I say about flying? I'd never even been in an airplane before. The moment those wheels left the ground and I felt that lurch and glide, I was addicted. I also found it hilarious that I was learning to fly an airplane before I'd gotten my driver's license. (I was also learning to drive Jackson's car, but only on bad-weather days or when Stavros was out of town, so it was a slow process.)

The first time I took off myself was even more of a rush. I was nervous, and in the back of my head my own voice was babbling "breathe, breathe, light hands, drop your shoulders, breathe" nonstop. But as I nudged the throttle and we floated up off the runway—dear God. I felt the same incredulous joy I'd felt the first time I heard the finale of "Rhapsody in Blue." There were tears in my eyes. I half expected Stavros to make fun of me, but he didn't say a word.

By the end of the summer I was practicing touch-and-go, with Stavros making caustic comments that to a stranger would have sounded mean as hell. To me, they meant he was taking me seriously as someone who might someday be able to control an aircraft.

"God. You bounce like that again, I bust you back to cleaning dog shit. Go around again. Three good landings with no bouncing before I let you go. I got nowhere to be, I can stay here till we run out of fuel."

"Why not refuel? I can keep going till dark."

"Shut up and fly. Three good landings, go."

It took me five tries, but I got my three good ones before lunchtime.

"Okay," he said. "Not bad. Better. You start school next week, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "I got class from nine to twelve every day and from one to five Tuesdays and Thursdays. So I can give you three afternoons a week plus weekends, after this one."

"Hmph. Enjoy your vacation. I work your ass off when you come back."

I grinned. "Yes, sir."

Today was the last Friday before fall quarter. Rachel and Clint had just gotten back from their summer vacation, and she'd invited me to come over for dinner. I'd accepted, gladly. I was thoroughly tired of Armstrong food. It's pitiful how easy it is to get spoiled.

Clint was waiting for me when I came out of the hangar.

He'd grown a lot over the summer. Now, a couple of months before his fourteenth birthday, he was about up to my eyebrows. He'd gotten tanned, and his hair was lighter after three months in the sun. His shoulders were broader, too. He was going to be breaking some hearts soon.

"What's up, Robin Hood?" I asked. He looked unusually solemn as he handed me a folded piece of paper. I looked a question at him.

"Open it," he said. His voice had just the slightest husky overtone; likely later this year it would break.

I opened it. It was a Xerox of a page from an elementary school yearbook. Third grade. The sixth name down was "Diane Dupree" and my honey, my baby sister, my sweet girl was looking up at me with an uncertain smile.

"Oh my God. Where—" I couldn't breathe. I could barely see.

"She's in Jesup."

"How in the hell...?"

"I told everyone in Scouts I was doing a genealogy project. I told them I'd found out I had some cousins I'd never met and that they were probably somewhere in the area. They all said they'd look. One of the guys I met at the Jamboree has a little brother her age; they're in the same class. He mailed me this."

I stared at him. "Baby, don't take this wrong, but I'm about to hug you," I said, and I threw my arms around him and squeezed him until he coughed. He laughed a little.

"I'm not worried," he said. "I know I'm not your type."

I let go of him and swatted the back of his head. Then I backed up and tried to catch my breath. "Clint...seriously. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said quietly, and lightly hugged me back.

"You're my hero," I said, wiping my eyes with my bandana. "Now if I could get word to her...but likely she'd just tell Mama and Daddy right off, and then what?"

"I had an idea about that," said Clint.

I looked at him sharply. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. What if you wrote to her school counselor? Just tell her who you are, and send her a copy of the court documents from when you were emancipated. And your folks' police record. That way, if the counselor thinks Diane's in trouble, she knows she can contact you. And you've still kept your word."

I stared at him. "I'm going to have to think of a better name than Robin Hood. Merlin? Aragorn?"

He smiled crookedly. "James Bond?"

"Nah. Bond is heartless. And he has no respect for women. Your mom would kick his ass right out of her house."

He laughed. "Probably true."

"Besides, you're way better-looking than Roger Moore. Or Sean Connery."

He grinned. "Like you'd know."

"I'm gay, not blind," I said. "Have you had lunch?"

"Not yet."

"I'm buying. Anything you want."

"Ruth's Chris," he said challengingly.

"Darlin', you can have one of everything they've got."

He didn't, but he got through an appetizer, a steak dinner, and dessert, though he was moving awfully slow by the end.

"So what happens when your scoutmaster finds out you lied about the genealogy project?" I asked.

"I didn't," he said smugly. "I just chased after some false leads. I traced Dad's family back seven generations, and Mom's five. I may get in a few more before the deadline."

"Find anything interesting?"

He nodded. "Sadly, no relation to Clara Barton. But I dug up train robber, a timber baron, and a couple of famous actresses. A delegate to the Continental Congress, three Civil War officers..."

"Union or Confederate?"

"Two Union, one Confederate. And a doctor who was shot for helping a prisoner escape from Andersonville. "

"Impressive."

He smirked. "I plan to outdo them."

"Without getting shot, I hope."

"Of course."

"So how was the rest of your summer?" I asked as we walked back out into the stifling heat of the afternoon to get our bikes.

"Gold medal at AAU nationals," he said.

"Take that, Sherriff of Nottingham," I grinned.

"And I passed my lifesaving class."

"Cool." We rode back to his house, slowly. A heavy meal plus a heat index in the upper 90s kept us both from hurrying. Rachel was just about finished unpacking and sorting the vacation laundry.

"Your son," I informed her, "is a miracle worker."

"Oh?" she said. She did not sound surprised.

"He found my sister."

Rachel stared at me, then at Clint. "You did?"

He had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Yeah."

"I sense a story," she said. "And I would very much like to hear how you managed that when you've been right under my nose all summer. Let me get this load started and then we'll talk."

Rachel had to admit that Clint had managed things pretty adroitly. No confidences betrayed, no private information revealed; and she also felt it was a good thing for Diane to have a backstop, given our family history. (I didn't think too hard about that part. I should have. I should have asked, what happens to the good, sweet little girl when the mouthy, troublemaking big girl isn't there to take the flak? But it didn't occur to me. Or I didn't let it occur to me.)

I wrote to Diane's counselor. She wrote back. She told me she had received my information and it had been added to Diane's file. She said she hoped I understood that she could not release any information on Diane to me. She assured me that she would be as careful with my information as well, which I hoped meant she wouldn't mention this to Mama and Daddy. And there matters stood.

I wrote back to the counselor one more time and asked that she please be sure my address and phone number, and the court transcripts, followed Diane to any new school she transferred to. Her reply was a brief, "I'll do my best."

* * *

Fall quarter was good. I declared my major: criminology. I stayed busy, between classes and work; and Clint dragged me along to share his new enthusiasm, astronomy. The Savannah Science Museum had a planetarium, and a bunch of telescope jockeys in the area hosted star-watching parties out on Skidaway Island from time to time. I wasn't as into it as he was, but I learned my way around the constellations. I figured it wasn't a bad idea to have backup navigational cues for when I qualified for night flying.

Clint didn't go nuts like he had over archery, but he bought a small telescope and, with the help of his friends, built himself a platform in his back yard, from which he could watch the sky. (If he'd been younger I'd have called it a "fort", but he was protective of his teenaged dignity and I tried to be too.) It stood about twelve feet off the ground, with a knee-wall around it and a canvas roof and sides, adapted from an old tent, that he could open up for viewing or close to keep out the rain. It had enough space for an air mattress, his telescope and the requisite snacks. He did a good job on it. Savannah has too much light pollution for serious astronomy, but when it's not cloudy you can see Venus, Mars or Jupiter, or watch a lunar eclipse or a meteor shower. Besides, the platform also made a pretty good man-cave for him and his buddies. There were three or four regulars that I ran into often at the Bartons'. They were like a litter of half-grown labrador puppies, all energy and enthusiasm. They romped in and out of the house, scarfing any unwatched food that caught their eyes, scattering pick-up lines and bits of Monty Python dialogue like confetti.

Clint had a good freshman year in high school. He kept up with his first love, archery, but also joined the rifle team. After his English class read _Last of the Mohicans_, nobody at school called him anything but Hawkeye. Rachel still called him Clint; I still called him Robin Hood. He still rolled his eyes.

I got in the habit of meeting Rachel for coffee about once a week. (It only took my first final-exam week to make me into a coffee drinker.) We grew to be friends; not an intimate friendship, but pleasant for both of us, based mainly on books and music and our shared fondness for her son.

Over Christmas break, Jackson, who was now in grad school at SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design, though I used to joke that it stood for "SCA Downtown" since so many of my medievalist buddies went there), invited me to a party at which he and some of his classmates pitched a project they were starting. They planned to travel to various high-poverty, underdeveloped areas and set up a marketing plan for local women to sell their handicrafts in the U.S.

"This is a great idea, Jackson, but expenses are going to eat us alive," said one of the others. "These places aren't on air routes; we'd either have to rent cars and pay out the wazoo for the damage from the bad roads, or charter a private plane."

_Aha_, I thought.

"This is true," said Jackson. "Fortunately I happen to know an up-and-coming pilot." And he bowed to me with a flourish.

"Jackson," I protested. "I don't even have my private license yet, let alone commercial. And I don't have a plane."

"I have faith in you," he said. "Besides, this is a long-term project. We're starting small and local, getting donors in line, establishing contacts. I'm betting that by the time we can buy a plane, you'll be ready to fly it."

Well. Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone.

That Spring Break I soloed. I got my private pilot license and my instrument rating over the summer. I started working toward a commercial license.

The next year was my senior year and Clint's sophomore year. He went to Junior Olympics in archery and won the gold. He took a bronze in the GHSA rifle championships. On the rare occasions when we both had free time on the weekends, I started teaching him to fly. He bought himself Microsoft Flight Simulator 2.0 and practiced on it till he damn near wore out the disks.

In the spring of 1985 I graduated, with a B.A. in Criminology. I applied for a couple of forensics jobs, but didn't get them. I kept sending out resumes. In the meantime I got my commercial license, and I started saving up to buy my own plane. Jackson's group didn't have one yet, but they had started piggybacking the crafts-marketing project onto their members' and donors' vacations. They'd made some good contacts in Mexico and the Caribbean, and had put out their first catalog. Orders were coming in, and the prices were good for both the buyers and the sellers.

Stavros had me teaching ground school, and he started talking about letting me help with flying lessons (Clint's lessons were unofficial, and unpaid, on an easier-to-get-forgiveness-than-permission sort of basis. Stavros knew I was taking Clint up with me; he didn't ask whether I was letting him take the controls, and I didn't volunteer; but Stavros had been a kid growing up around planes. I figured he knew damn well.)

I'd gotten my driver's license, my own apartment, and my own car. (An AMC Hornet. Ugly as sin, but it ran. Fortunately there were no hills in Savannah to speak of.)

I had a steady girlfriend: Sherry, a legal secretary, a weekend sailor and a bellydancer. Watching her dance, I could believe that I was risking Hellfire by falling in love with her; and I could also believe it was worth it. She thought the SCA was silly and pointless for the most part, but it did give her a venue for dancing, so she tagged along with me occasionally.

I thought about asking her to move in with me, but I couldn't quite do it. For one thing, I'd grown fond of having my own place and having it just the way I wanted. For another, she was an atheist, and she liked to mock me for believing in God. Not that big a deal, but it was like sand in my shoe rubbing a blister. Not that I expected her to change, but that she couldn't see that this was important to me, and that she was hurting me. I swallowed my resentment, and I kept going out with her, kept loving her, but part of me had to be held back, and it was the part right at the center of me. But then, I'd had plenty of practice at that.

_If I could just be sure Diane was okay_, I thought, _everything would be fine_.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Four: Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child_

[Author's note: Warnings: non-canon character death, violence, trauma, sexual assault]

**January, 1986**

It's never good news when the phone rings at 4 a.m.

Even as I groped for the receiver and tried to get my head clear enough to say a coherent "Hello?" I was bracing myself. Something had happened to Diane. The hangar had caught on fire. Sherry's boat had capsized. And the voice of reason was going 'it's just some drunk dialing the wrong number'.

But it was Clint. "Jeannine," he said, and stopped.

"Clint? What's wrong?"

"Jeannine, Mom's dead."

"What? What happened? Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital. St. Joe's. The police told me to call somebody who could pick me up—"

"Baby, I'm coming. I'll be right there," I said, scrambling on the floor for my jeans. "Where do I come to meet you?"

I heard him mumbling to someone, then, "They said come to the emergency room, tell them you're there for me and somebody will meet you."

"Okay, Clint. I'm on my way. Hang on."

God, the poor kid, he sounded like hell. I hung up, grabbed my jacket, jammed my feet in my shoes and ran for the door, snagging my purse and keys on the way out.

It was drizzling, and the lights shining on the wet, empty streets made everything even blurrier and more surreal. I tried to get fully awake. What could have happened? Rachel was in good health, far too young for a heart attack or stroke. Surely she couldn't have been driving at this time of night and had a wreck. A fire?

I pulled into the parking deck, found a space and hoofed it to the ER entrance. I slowed down as I got close to the door so as not to freak out the security guard. He just nodded to me; I'm sure they're used to panicky people, but I try not to startle folks with guns.

"I'm here to meet Clint Barton," I said to the woman at the desk.

"Could I get your name?" she asked.

"Jeannine Dupree," I said. She nodded, looked at a list, and then paged someone.

A woman in a business suit came around the desk. "Miss Dupree? Follow me, please," she said. "I'm Karen; I'm one of the social workers."

I tried not to tense up. "Social worker" was right up there with "boogeyman" when I was growing up. I reminded myself what unreliable sources my parents were.

"What happened?" I asked. "Was there a fire?"

"In here, please," Karen said and led me into a small room with a table and two chairs. There was a box of Kleenex on the table. This, in my experience, means someone's expected to start crying. Karen gestured me to a chair and sat in another.

"Rachel Barton was murdered," she said bluntly, "and her son found her body."

"Oh, my God," I said. "Where's Clint? Is he—Jesus Christ, of course he's not okay. Is he hurt?"

"He's not injured. The police have interviewed him, and they'll allow him to go home with you. But I wanted you to be prepared first."

"Thank you," I said distractedly.

"Mrs. Barton was also sexually assaulted."

"Holy God. Does Clint know that?"

She nodded. "Apparently it was obvious from the way...the body was left," she said.

"How was she killed?"

"Her throat was cut. She was dead on arrival, but...it's possible she was still alive when he found her."

"God." I covered my face for a moment, gulping air, trying to get hold of myself. He was going to need me together and calm. Oh dear God, the poor kid. "Is anybody with him?"

"Just one of the police officers. He called a friend, but apparently they're out of town."

"Please, can I see him now?"

"Of course," she said. "Follow me."

She led me down the hall to a room marked "Family Lounge"; there was a coffeemaker, a TV, several chairs and the ever-present box of Kleenex. The room was empty except for a somber-looking young cop and Clint, staring at the TV with a stiff, expressionless face. He looked up as I came through the doorway. As soon as he saw me, he caught his breath in a sob; his face twisted, and he jumped up and threw himself at me.

I grabbed him and held on tight. He clutched my jacket in both fists, buried his face in my shoulder, and wept so hard his whole body shook. The cop looked embarrassed, and guilty for being embarrassed. I stood there holding my murdered friend's son and wondered how on earth anything was ever, ever going to be all right again.

"Oh honey," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I held him as he cried, rocking back and forth slightly, as if I could help. As if my arms could shield him from the least particle of the evil and horror of the universe. As if I had a clue. Dear God.

After a while, his crying got quieter. "You want to get out of here?" I asked. He nodded and let go of me, sniffling. I grabbed a handful of Kleenex and handed them to him, put an arm around him and steered him down the hall to the emergency room entrance. The rain had stopped, but the trees were still dripping.

We got in the car and I turned the heat way up. He sat hunched in on himself with his arms wrapped around him.

"If you want to talk, I'll listen," I said to him. "But I'm guessing you've had enough questions for tonight."

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. Then after a few more blocks, "Thanks for coming to get me."

"Of course," I said. We rode a little longer in silence.

"What did they tell you?" he asked me.

"That you found your mom's body. And..." Jesus, it was hard to say, but if I didn't say it he'd have to. "...and that she'd been raped and her throat was cut."

"Yeah." More silence. "I didn't...I didn't see the guy. But I think I heard his car. I was sleeping out on the platform and I think that's what woke me up."

"God Almighty."

We pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building. He got out of the car, moving stiffly. I put a hand on his back as we walked in. I sat him down on my futon and draped a blanket around his shoulders because he was shivering. I made him a cup of tea without asking. I figured if he didn't want to drink it he could at least warm his hands on it. I sat by him with an arm around him as the hours slowly, slowly ticked by.

He drank a few sips of the tea but mostly just stared at it. Eventually he put it down and put his hands over his face.

As the sky began to lighten, he was starting to nod off. I got up and got him a pillow and he lay down on the futon and fell asleep. He looked like a wounded animal: curled in on himself, terribly vulnerable.

I sat down at the kitchen table and started making lists. People who needed to be called: next of kin, Clint's school, Rachel's bank, Armstrong, her lawyer. Funeral home, oh dear God. Clint was going to need some kind of professional help. I needed to get on that fast. I bet he didn't own a suit; he would need one for the funeral. I'd need to get some of his stuff from the house, clothes, address book, school books and so on. God. Would the police let me? Who'd take care of the financial stuff until Clint turned eighteen? Did Rachel have a will?

Jesus, the first person I would have turned to with all this would have been Rachel. I felt a huge hole open up in my life. I couldn't imagine what this would be like for Clint.

Once it got to be 7:30 I went in my bedroom and closed the door so I could make phone calls without waking him up. I called his school, told them he'd be absent due to a death in the family. I called Rachel's office and told LaShonda that Rachel had died and Clint was with me, but that I didn't want to give out any details just yet; got Rachel's emergency contact phone numbers from her; and asked her to have someone in the Department of Social Work call me as soon as they got in.

LaShonda had three emergency contacts listed for Rachel; Alexis Grant in Ames, Iowa and Steve McKillip at Georgia Southwestern were both listed as "friend", and James Barton in Oakland, California as "brother-in-law". I decided to go East-to-West because of the time difference.

Steve answered his phone on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Mr. McKillip. My name is Jeannine Dupree, and I'm calling because you're listed as an emergency contact for Rachel Barton," I said.

"Yes," he said. "Has something happened?"

"Yes sir," I said. "Rachel died last night. I'm a friend of the family, and I wanted to let you know that Clint's as all right as could be expected, and he's staying with me."

"What happened?"

I hesitated. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I should give out details right now. Clint was up all night and he's asleep. Once he wakes up and we can talk things over, I'll call you back and let you know about funeral arrangements and all that. Let me give you my address and phone number."

"Hang on, let me get a pencil. And please tell me your name again."

"Jeannine. Jeannine Dupree."

"Oh. Rachel's talked about you. Okay, I'm ready."

I gave him my contact information.

"Thank you, Jeannine," he said. "I'm glad you're there to help Clint, but I'm sorry it's fallen to you. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Yes sir. I will."

It was still too early to call Iowa or California. I went back out to the kitchen and started some coffee.

Clint appeared soundlessly in the doorway. I jumped. He didn't seem to notice.

"Do you drink coffee?" I asked. He shook his head. "Juice? Water?"

"Water," he said hoarsely.

"Sit down," I said. I brought him the water and a stack of graham crackers. "Eat if you can," I said. He nodded, but made no move to eat.

"I called school and told them you'd had a death in the family. I called LaShonda and told her too, and one of your mom's emergency contacts. I didn't give anybody any details."

He nodded.

"Who's James Barton?" I asked.

"My uncle," he said. "My dad's brother. He's in California. Oakland."

"Are y'all close?"

"No. We see him maybe every other Christmas. He writes once in a while. He's a lot older than Dad. Than Dad would be."

"Do you have any relatives closer?"

He shook his head. "He's next of kin. Mom's...Mom was an only child. Her parents are both dead. Dad's mom is in a nursing home in California; his dad died last year."

I nodded. "Once it gets a little later, we need to call your Uncle James. I can if you'd rather, or you can. It's up to you."

"I'll call him," he said.

"Okay. In the meantime, we have some work to do. And I'm sorry, but I don't know much more about this than you do. We have to make funeral arrangements. We have to find out if your mom left a will. There's probably some other stuff I'm not thinking of yet; one of the social work people is supposed to call me later and help walk us through this. You can stay here as long as you want, but I imagine your uncle's going to want you to come to him. Do you know if your mom had a lawyer?"

"Yeah. Dave. Um, Dave...shit. I can't think of his name."

"Give it time."

"Bright-something. Brightwell, something like that."

I pulled out the phone book and looked in the yellow pages. "Breitreiter?"

"That's it."

I called the law firm and left a message on their answering machine.

"Did the cops tell you who to call if you wanted to talk to them?"

"Yeah." He fished in the pocket of his hooded jacket and came out with a crumpled business card. Detective Sarah Logan. I noticed for the first time that I didn't recognize the clothes he was wearing: a long-sleeved t-shirt, sweat pants and jacket, all slightly too large; athletic socks and worn tennis shoes. All probably lent to him by someone at the hospital. I thought about bloodstains, and felt sick. I tried to keep it off my face.

"Okay. I'm going to call her and find out about getting stuff out of your house. I need Rachel's address book, and you need clothes and stuff. Make a list and I'll go get what you need." I tore off the top sheet of the legal pad I'd been writing notes on, and pushed the pad and pen over to him.

"Jeannine," he said, staring down at the note pad.

"What, honey?"

"Stay out of her bedroom. There's...a lot of blood." He stayed staring down at the blank page as his tears spotted it and his shoulders shook. He wept silently for a long time. I stood next to him, holding him by the shoulders. After a while I dug some Kleenex out of my pocket and put it in his hand. He took a deep breath, pulled himself together and blew his nose. Then he picked up the pen, flipped to a dry sheet of paper, and started writing.

I left him alone for a while. Then, once he'd finished his list and pushed it over to me, I said, "Look. I don't want to leave you by yourself. Is there somebody you'd like to have come over here?"

"Michael, maybe. After school."

"Okay. I'll stick around till school lets out, get all the telephone stuff out of the way. You can help me brainstorm who else we need to call." I checked the clock. "Let me call Ms. Grant, and then when I'm done you can go ahead and call your uncle."

Alexis Grant was shocked and tearful. "Please, tell me what I can do," she said.

"I guess, just pass the word along to anyone else up there who knew the family," I said. "I'll call you back when we have funeral arrangements made." I grabbed my list and added _Change of address form for Clint & Rachel's mail_ to it.

"Okay, phone's all yours," I said to Clint. "Want to use the one in my room so you can have some privacy?"

"No, it's okay," he said.

The phone call to his uncle was brief and matter-of-fact. He told James that Rachel had been murdered, but not that she'd been raped and not that he'd been the one to find her. James told him he'd be down as soon as he could get a flight; I said to tell him we'd pick him up from the airport.

Clint sat still after he hung up, looking numb and lost. "Did I tell you they thought I might have done it?" he said, without looking up.

"Good God, Clint," I said. "What makes you think that?"

"They took my fingerprints," he said.

"Honey, they're going to be dusting the house for prints and they need to know which ones to eliminate. Yours, Rachel's, anybody else's who had a reason to be there."

"You sure?"

"Yes. If you were a suspect, they'd be holding you. They wouldn't have let you come home with me."

"Oh." He stayed silent for a while. "But I messed up the crime scene."

"How?"

"I...she was tied up. I untied her. I covered her up."

"Baby, you're not a detective. You're her son. You were acting like a human being. It's okay."

"What if he gets away because of me?"

"He won't. Stop it, now. Stop beating yourself up. A horrible thing happened and none of it was your fault."

"If I'd been sleeping in the house—"

I took him by the shoulders. "Clint Barton. Stop now. This won't help. Stop thinking about that and think about what needs to be done next. We have to get through the rest of today. We have to let people know she's gone. And we have to start thinking about how to pay our respects. That's enough for now." I looked around. "Here, I have a job for you. People are going to start bringing food. We need to make some room in the fridge. Come help me."

About the time we finished that, Amy from Social Work called. I was on the phone with her a long time, and my list got a lot longer, most of it stuff that James would have to handle as next of kin. _Obituary._ _Certified copies of death certificate to all utilities, bank, workplace, mortgage co., auto loan co. if any. Transfer of body to funeral home. _Since Rachel had been murdered, her body was considered evidence; this took precedence over her organ donor card and any family preferences about cremation vs. burial. We'd probably have to hold a memorial service now with burial later.

I asked Amy to get me a list of counselors, psychiatrists and social workers who were covered by Armstrong's insurance. She said she would, but that Clint's regular doctor would have to give him a referral. I added that to the list too.

"Clint, make me a list of people you want to have help with the funeral arrangements and the obituary. People who knew her best, who'd know what she wanted."

LaShonda came over, with a squash casserole, hugs for Clint, and two ladies from her church. The three of them pitched in and cleaned my apartment till it shone. I was embarrassed but grateful. By noon, flowers, more food, and offers of help started streaming in. Clint was starting to look like he was held together with Scotch tape. I sent him to my room to lie down and sleep or read, and told him to come out only if and when he felt like it.

James called and told me his flight would be getting in at 5:15. Clint called Michael, who agreed to come over and stay with him. LaShonda said she'd stay too. I called Detective Logan and made arrangements to meet her at the house to pick up Clint's things. Logan told me they were holding Rachel's address book as evidence, but would let us have a copy.

Things started running together into a blur, and I honestly don't remember how that day ended or when I finally got to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Five: Been in the Storm So Long_

[Author's note: Warning: descriptions of sexual violence and self-harm. Also: in our world the AAU Junior Olympics does not include archery. We don't have Avengers either. ]

The next day, before I got involved in preparations for the memorial, I did one thing for myself. I called Dr. Alford, one of my professors in the criminology program. He was a retired pathologist who still did consulting work for the medical examiner's office. I asked him to get me in to see Rachel's body.

"No," he said.

"Dr. Alford, you know I wouldn't ask you this if it weren't important. I'm not a rubbernecker."

"I know that, but—"

"The victim was a friend of mine. Her kid found her. He's fifteen. He's staying with me temporarily. The only family he's got is this uncle, and he barely knows him. Somebody's got to be emotional support for him, and to do that I've got to know what he's up against. Please."

He sighed. "All right, but you'll have to be quick. And you're not to touch anything."

"I won't."

I was glad I'd skipped eating. This wasn't my first cadaver—I'd been up to the Body Farm in Knoxville a couple of times—but it was the first time I'd seen the body of someone I'd known in life, and it was by far the most violent death. The slash across Rachel's throat was single and deep, cutting into the trachea as well as the blood vessels. There were bite marks, deep ones that had drawn blood. There were bruises and tears.

I nodded to Dr. Alford and he covered her back up and closed the drawer. We left the morgue and stripped off our gowns, gloves, masks, hairnets and shoe covers in silence. I was shaking. He wasn't, but he looked grim.

"What did you notice?" he asked.

"No hesitation marks," I said.

He nodded. "He'd had experience. Maybe just slaughtering animals. But he didn't have any trouble getting up the nerve to cut her throat. If he gets away with this, he'll do it again."

"And no defensive wounds," I said.

He shook his head. "There might have been more than one assailant. She was tied up. That takes two hands. Maybe one of them held the knife or a gun on her while the other one tied her up."

"Could she have been knocked out?"

"Unlikely. No contusions on the head. She could have been choked, but there's not much bruising around her neck. Tox screen was negative. Did you see the bruising on the brachia?"

"No sir. I missed it."

"Hard to see with the arms at her sides; it's on the medial surfaces. Consistent with her being held down; possibly the assailant knelt on her arms, or sat on her chest with his feet on her arms, while he tied her hands."

"Are all the bite prints the same?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. They're all from the same assailant."

I sighed. "I hope there's not more than one. Bad enough to think there's one person out there who'd do this."

He looked at me with a cynical tilt to his eyebrows. "Weren't you paying attention in class? Population one hundred fifty thousand. How many psychopaths, on average, in a population that size?"

I looked back at him as steadily as I could manage. "About seventy-five. But maybe half of those are either kids or elderly. Thirty-seven. About half female. That leaves eighteen or nineteen male psychopaths between, say, eighteen and sixty-five."

"That's right. So there's your ballpark figure for how many people in Chatham County might do something like this."

With that comforting thought, I went home and tried to shift gears and do what normal people did after a death.

With the help of Detective Logan, Rachel's friends and colleagues, and Clint's uncle, we got through the day, and through the days that followed. Everyone was kind and supportive, and gentle but not condescending to Clint. His school buddies sent reams of cards and flowers, as did Rachel's co-workers and friends. The funeral home was packed. I made it my task to send thank-you notes; it distracted me from how little I was able to do to actually help.

One thing I could and did do, and that was categorically refuse to let any reporters anywhere near Clint. One of the TV news crews parked their truck across the street, apparently watching the door of my apartment. I arranged for James to pick Clint up after dark and take him to stay at his hotel. The reporters kept up their surveillance for a couple of days, but when they realized Clint had moved on, they got frustrated and left—but not without leaving a little folded-up note stuck in the crack of my door, for God's sake, like a bunch of third-graders. "Let us know when you decide you're ready to speak about the tragedy." I threw it away and called the hotel to let Clint and James know the coast was clear; Clint decided to come back to my place until moving day.

Rachel had a will, and it named James Barton as Clint's guardian and Alexis Grant as executrix. Alexis rented some storage units and Clint's Scout troop packed up the furniture and Rachel's things and moved it all into storage. A specialty cleaning service came in to deal with the bedroom. (I hadn't known this, but there actually are businesses that specialize in cleaning up after crime scenes. What a horrible way to make a living, but what a blessing to the families.) After they finished, a local maid service donated their time to clean the whole house, getting it ready to put on the market.

The day after we finished the final walk-through of the house, I tiptoed into my apartment, thinking Clint might be asleep, and surprised him at my kitchen table, carefully and methodically carving long, shallow, parallel lines into his left biceps with a razor blade. He jumped and looked guilty.

I wet down a dish towel and handed it to him. He started wiping the blood off his arm. I pulled out my first aid kit and started digging in it for gauze and tape and Neosporin.

"Honey," I said, "this isn't going to help."

"It does, though," he said softly. "It helps me stop shaking."

"You've got to give it time," I said. "Keep up with the counseling. Get outdoors. Shoot some."

"I tried," he said. "My hands shake too much."

I didn't say anything else, just cleaned and wrapped the arm for him and threw the razor blade in the trash.

His uncle James seemed not to know what to do with him either. James was some kind of investment guy; he didn't read, wasn't interested in sports, didn't know any teenagers. He did have some experience of grief, having lost his brother ten years earlier. I asked him about it, one night when Clint's friends ganged up on him and took him out to the movies.

"Colin was killed in a bank robbery," said James. "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He looked down at his drink. "Clint doesn't know this," he continued, "but it was a police bullet that killed him." He looked back up at me. "For obvious reasons, Rachel didn't want to tell him that."

"Good call," I said, and shivered. We sat for a while.

"He's a good kid, James," I said. "Smart, obviously. But he's got a lot more going on than that. Try to keep him doing archery. He loves it more than anything, and he's good. Really amazingly good."

James nodded.

"He won his division in the Junior Olympics this year," I continued. "And he's not going to tell you this, but that automatically qualifies him for the U.S. team trials." I looked him straight in the eye. "Get him there. It could be what keeps him going."

James nodded again. "I'll try." He sat silent for a while longer. "I hate to take him away from all his friends," he said. "But at the same time, everything here's going to remind him of Rachel, and how she died. I thought—I think maybe if he can start over on the West Coast it'll be easier for him."

"Maybe," I said. "And anyway, you're the only family he's got. That's important."

He looked away. "I wish we'd been closer. It's going to be hard to build any kind of relationship with him now."

"Yeah. All you can do is try," I said.

He sat for a while longer, then looked at his watch. "I need to go," he said. "I've got things to do. We're flying out day after tomorrow." He stood up, rather heavily. "Thanks for all you've done for Clint," he said. "I appreciate it. And I know he does too."

"Least I can do," I said. "Rachel was a real lifesaver for me, and Clint's been like my little brother these past few years. I'll miss him."

"You have our address and phone number?" James asked.

I nodded.

"Okay then. I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Our flight leaves early, so I'd like him to stay with me at my hotel tomorrow night. All right if I pick him up around five?"

"I'll make sure he's ready."

I wandered around the apartment, cleaning stuff up, jotting down notes of things not to forget to have Clint pack or buy for his trip, until his friends brought him home.

"How was the movie?" I asked.

"Oh, it was _crap!_" he said, with the first hint of a smile I'd seen since Rachel died. "Truly, awesomely crap-tacular. It was so crappy it was amazing. I'll tell you about it in a minute, I have to lend Michael a book." He ducked into the living room where he kept his stuff, and I looked to his friends, three of them, two classmates and a Scout buddy.

"Thank you guys," I said. "Sounds like it was just what he needed."

They looked embarrassed.

Clint came back with the book, a paperback of _Dune_. "Here," he said. "Enjoy. And thanks for the ride and the company."

"GYMKATA!" the other three chorused, and all four laughed. Clint walked out to the car with them.

I got out the chocolate chip cookies and milk and we sat at the table while he recounted the movie to me, with gestures. I laughed till I cried.

"Somebody _paid_ to film this?" I asked.

He smiled. A full-on grin. "Believe it or not. Must have been blackmail involved," he said.

The phone rang. Both of us flinched. I picked it up. It was Detective Logan.

"I'm sorry to call so late," she said. "But I have some news for Clint. May I speak to him?"

"Logan," I said as I handed him the phone. He took it as if it had been a scorpion.

His half of the conversation was mostly "uh-huh" and "no ma'am," and a "thank you" before he hung up. He looked at me, eyes haunted. "They think they got the guy."

I didn't know what to say.

"She said the trial would probably start in late April or early May. They want me to testify."

I nodded. "You're welcome to stay here when you come," I said.

"Thanks," he said. His hands were shaking again.

I cleaned up the kitchen and headed for bed. I kept an eye on the light from the living room, shining through the crack under my door. It didn't go out till nearly two a.m.

Next day, the Morning News had the arrest on the front page.

The suspect was named Marshall Gilbert. He was 38 years old, six feet three inches tall, two hundred and thirty pounds. A former high school linebacker who'd kicked around as a day laborer, construction worker, road crew, and, yes, slaughterhouse employee. He'd been fired from that latter job for cruelty to animals.

Most recently, he'd done janitorial work at Armstrong.

He had a police record: public intoxication, peeping Tom, resisting arrest, disturbing the peace, several assault charges.

He declined a court-appointed attorney, saying he'd defend himself.

He reminded me a lot of my dad.

* * *

**April, 1986**

Logan was wrong. The trial didn't start in April.

Marshall Gilbert refused to cooperate with his court-appointed defense attorney. The attorney claimed that Gilbert was mentally ill and also had the I.Q. of a child, and was therefore not fit to stand trial. Gilbert refused to cooperate with the defense team's psychiatrist who tried to assess his competency.

This went on, and on, and on.

Sherry had been very understanding in the weeks following Rachel's death, but as time dragged on and I was still unable to let go and return to normal, she grew impatient. Finally she broke up with me, saying she was too young to stop having a good time just because crap happened to other people. I got thoroughly drunk for the first time in my life, sitting alone in my apartment, and the next day I suffered through my first hangover. It seemed karmically just or something; my body felt as sick, sore and torn up as my soul. It was an educational experience, but one I decided not to make a habit of.

Meanwhile, I wrote to Clint at least once a week. He wrote back, somewhat less often. He told me he liked his new school okay, that he and his uncle were getting along, that he'd found an archery range to practice at. He said he was still having trouble with his hands shaking, but he thought he might be able to get back in shape in time for the team trials at the end of May.

I told him I'd decided to focus on flying and quit applying for jobs in forensics labs. I described some of the flights I'd taken, and I sent him the new Scenery Disks for MS Flight Simulator. _Be sure to check out St. Thomas_, I said. _The damn runway really does point right into a cliff face, and those chunks of dead planes along the sides? They're actually there. Scariest landing I've ever done when nothing was going wrong._

His next letter was the longest I'd gotten from him, and frankly, it was pretty disturbing.

_I've been thinking a lot about Marshall Gilbert_, he wrote. _How he's basically just dicking around with us, and getting away with it. I was out on the range yesterday, and I thought, the nine ring on this target is about the size of a human heart. I started imagining that Gilbert was standing in front of the target, and I nailed it, over and over again, six out of six arrows in the nine at fifty meters. My hands didn't shake at all._

_I want him dead, Jeannine. I don't care about due process, or justice, or even what he might do to other women if they let him go. I just want to see him die._

_I'm not quite as good with the rifle yet as I am with the bow, though of course the range is a lot longer. But given a choice I'd rather use a bow. It's more personal, somehow. It makes a difference that it's powered by my own body; I'm not just pulling a trigger. _

_If they let him go I don't know what I'll do. But I know what I'll want to do._

Jesus. How was I supposed to answer that?

_Dear Clint_, I wrote.

_Damn, that's some pretty intense stuff. No surprise. I hate him too, with far less reason than you have. And unlike you I do think about what he might do to someone else. I have nightmares about it. Sometimes it's Sherry. Sometimes it's Diane. Sometimes it's me._

_I think it's understandable that you want him dead, and even that you want to kill him yourself. But one of the differences between people like you and people like Marshall Gilbert is that you don't go around killing people. Even when you want to, even with good reason to want to._

_What Gilbert did to your mom was horrible. But if he managed to turn her son into a murderer, that would be even worse. That would be the worst possible outcome._

_Fight back. Don't let him take away her best legacy to the world. Be better than that._

_Keep working on all of it: schoolwork, archery, riflery, holding it together. Flying, if you get a chance out there. I'm proud of you. She would be too. —J._

That letter didn't get answered.

I kept writing, and tried harder to keep my advice and platitudes to myself.

_My volunteer work's been getting more interesting lately_, I wrote. _We've started a new education program for our volunteers. I'm learning a lot._

Jackson's crafts-marketing project, which we'd ended up naming "Good Measure", had taken an odd turn. We had monthly board meetings at his place. At our May meeting he introduced us to Joanna Ledet, a vigorous woman in her sixties who'd been leading our team in Honduras.

"We've found ourselves in a situation we don't quite know how to handle," she told the board. "In the course of our work, we spend a lot of time with the local women while they're working on baskets and tapestries and so on, and with hours of handwork to do, naturally there's a lot of conversation." She smiled a little ruefully. "Or to be more accurate, a lot of gossip." She looked around the table. "Before I retired, I worked with the State Department. Honduras was my area of specialization, specifically the relationship between the Nicaraguan resistance fighters and the Honduran military. Most of you haven't heard about this, because the government's kept it quiet; but recently the Nicaraguan military has been sending expeditions across the border in search of the Contras who are based in Honduras. To cut to the bottom line: the women in Good Measure have proven to be better sources about troop movements and the location of Contra bases than any military intelligence source I've ever worked with. They have friends and relatives and contacts on both sides of the border, and often they pass in and out of sensitive areas without being noticed. They don't have access to the big picture, but I do. With the bits and pieces I picked up from the gossip sessions, I was able to predict the last two incursions. So what I want to ask the board is, what should we do with this kind of information?"

"God," said Jackson. "That's a minefield."

"You got that right," I said. "If we pass it along to the military, either ours or theirs, we risk heating up the conflict, and we basically become spies."

"Half the time they think we're spies anyway," said Helene, our logistics director.

"But if we circulate the information locally," said Elizabeth, our nurse practitioner, "using the same kind of informal network we got it from, we could save lives. We could get noncombatants out of harm's way, or at least get help to them faster after the violence."

"I don't know, guys," said Jackson. "We're just crafts importers. What the hell do we know about international politics and warfare?"

"Some of us, a good bit," I said, nodding to Joanna. "What if we had more like her?"

"We could do a lot behind the scenes if we had the expertise to know exactly what we were hearing," said Helene. "I know the truckers and the pilots and the sailors have information about the movements of goods and people that would be hugely useful, but they only talk to each other. And like Joanna said, they don't know the big picture."

"If we had more medical know-how," said Elizabeth, "we'd be in a great place to spot imminent famines and epidemics."

"Whoa, whoa," said Jackson. "Rein it in, ladies. We're just here to sell crafts and get some decent income for people in poor areas."

"But we could be doing a hell of a lot more," said Joanna.

"So what, you want to haul a lot of policy wonks and CIA types along with us while we're trying to buy beadwork and scarves?" Jackson said, with a slightly panicky air.

"What if instead we took the scarf buyers and baby nurses and pilots that we already have, and trained them in other areas?" Joanna asked. "Elizabeth, how'd you like a master's in epidemiology?"

"Paid for by whom?" said Elizabeth. "Not the government. I'm not going there."

"What if I could find someone, or several someones, to train you under the table, as it were? Tuition free?"

"Then I might say yes," said Elizabeth. "I'd have to think about it."

"I already have a criminology degree," I said, "But I'll take all the languages you can dish out. And I think forensic economics might be interesting."

"Where are we going with this?" Jackson asked.

"_No sé. Camino se hace caminando_," said Joanna.

"What?" said Elizabeth, who didn't have any Spanish.

"Don't know," I translated for her. "The road is made by walking."

"That our new motto?" asked Helene, and one by one we all nodded.

_In other news_, I wrote to Clint,_ I got a subscription to the Jesup Press-Sentinel. My father's been in the police report twice so far: once for writing bad checks, and one domestic disturbance call. So now I have their address, and I was able to look up their phone number. Diane's still in school down there. She's on the softball team. They got to the regionals this year, so her team's picture was in the paper. She's getting tall._

_I've kept my word not to contact them, but I am still so grateful to you for finding them. It makes it easier somehow, knowing where she is and that I could go get her if I had to. And hopefully, if she ever needs help, someone will call me now that the school knows I'm here._

That one he answered. _Re Diane: You're welcome, as I said before. It was kind of fun._

_The team trials were cool as hell. I just missed qualifying, but I got close enough to get a berth for next year's trials, so that's good. It was amazing being surrounded by people who just took it for granted that of course we all shoot arrows at things; doesn't everybody?_

_Did I tell you that when you split an arrow it's called a 'Robin Hood'? I haven't done it yet, though I've peeled the fletchings off several. In some competitions they actually use multiple smaller targets so that you don't split arrows. Bah._

_No astronomy worth doing in Oakland. The light pollution is awful. But I got to go on a school field trip to the Lick Observatory. That was awesome. They have a 36-inch reflector. Also, I got to do some rappelling and rock climbing on a trip sponsored by the ROTC. It wasn't __**quite **__enough to talk me into joining but it was damn close. I'll have to see if I can find a non-military option._

_Overall things are pretty good, but every time I start feeling almost normal Det. Logan sends me another update on what new shit Gilbert is pulling, and I'm right back to square one. Now his goddamn psychiatrist says he needs at least three months before he can testify about whether Gilbert's competent to stand trial. I wonder if this will ever be over._

_Michael invited me to spend a week with him this summer. If I get to come, I'll give you a call._


	6. Chapter 6

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Six: When I Was Sinking Down_

**September, 1986**

Clint's plans to vist fell through; he ended up staying in Oakland for the summer. He and I were still corresponding as he started his junior year. I heard more about his new school; how he'd continued competing in archery, and picked up riflery again; how he was thinking about ROTC but decided against it; how he was starting to think what college he might want to go to.

Then the letters got shorter, and more and more guarded.

Then they stopped.

I wrote to James. His reply was formal and not very informative. Clint was "going through a hard time."

At the end of September, Marshall Gilbert finally got a bench hearing that determined he was competent to stand trial.

Clint came back to testify. I picked him up from the Atlanta airport and drove back to Savannah. He was pretty quiet on the drive, but seemed okay. I'd turned my living room into a temporary guest room, with a second-hand sleeper sofa, a small chest of drawers and some bookshelves. He brought his schoolwork with him; his teachers had agreed to let him turn in assignments by mail. Rachel's lawyer Dave Breitreiter came over and had a talk with him. He offered to come to court with us on the first day, and then again when Clint was due to testify. I was glad for the support; Clint seemed indifferent.

The first day was a flurry of pretrial motions.

Gilbert still insisted on representing himself. The district attorney objected to the prospect of Gilbert, acting as defense counsel, cross-examining Clint. He offered instead to have Clint answer written questions remotely by closed-circuit TV. The judge denied the request and said that if the prosecution didn't want him cross-examined, they didn't have to call him as a witness. Clint just about jumped out of his chair at that, and went into a harsh whispered argument with Dave. They were both asked to continue their discussion outside the courtroom. Both apologized and Clint very politely asked to approach the bench. The judge allowed that. Dave came with him. I couldn't hear their conversation with the judge, but apparently Clint said forcefully but politely that he would do whatever it took to get justice for his mother, even if he had to be grilled in public by her murderer. The judge raised his eyebrows at the D.A. The D.A. threw up his hands in surrender.

Dave warned us that because of the defendant representing himself and the prosecution's reliance on forensic evidence, the trial was likely to be a long one. I told Clint that no matter how long it took, I'd be with him every day of the trial. He ducked his head and muttered, "Thanks," but not like he really meant it.

I took leave from work. Stavros said he wasn't sure he could hold a job for me for that long. I told him I understood. In the following weeks I dipped deeper and deeper into my bank account, until the prospect of my ever buying my own plane vanished in smoke. Finally I had to swallow my pride and ask James Barton to float me a loan till the trial was over. He sent me two thousand dollars, thanked me for my help, and apologized again that he couldn't leave work to be with Clint.

After adjournment each day, we went back to my place and I fixed dinner. Sometimes Clint would go over to a friend's house; sometimes one or more of his friends would come to my place and hang out. I asked him to keep fairly early hours, since we had to be in the courtroom by 8 a.m. each day, and he was usually in for the evening by eleven. But judging by the way the bookmark jumped forward through _Le Morte D'Arthur_ and then _Lord of the Rings_ and then the Riddle-Master trilogy, a couple hundred pages every morning, he wasn't getting much sleep.

Day after day we sat in the courtroom, listening to testimony. The police detectives showed photos of bite marks compared with impressions of Gilbert's teeth. They compared tire tracks from the front yard with the tires on Gilbert's car. They detailed how bloodstains found on the car upholstery and on Gilbert's shoes matched Rachel's blood type, and did not match Gilbert's, despite his claims that he'd just cut himself on a beer can. The court-appointed psychiatrist, speaking for the defense, speculated about Gilbert's childhood and possible brain damage from early abuse that kept him from knowing right from wrong. (Needless to say, those of us in the courtroom who'd had the shit pounded out of us in childhood and had nevertheless managed not to turn into rapist/murderers found this unconvincing.) The defendant himself delighted in throwing triumphant glances Clint's way as he described just exactly what he'd done to Rachel, and how quiet she'd been, and how she hadn't fought him at all. "She enjoyed it," he said. "A lot of women like it good and rough." I kept a deathgrip on Clint's left wrist. I could feel him shaking.

And I prayed and prayed that that brilliant boy would not put two and two together and realize that Rachel had kept quiet so he wouldn't hear anything. So he'd be safe on the platform in the backyard where he'd spent the night so he could watch for the Quadrantids whenever the rain let up. So he wouldn't come in to defend her, and get killed. And I knew, as I watched him turn ash-grey and felt the tendons in his wrist stand out as he clenched his fist, that my prayers were in vain.

I watched him testify and wished I could die, wished the courthouse would be bombed, wished the End Times would commence so I could stop hearing his quiet, anguished voice. I heard how he'd been awakened by the car scratching off from in front of the house; had seen the light on in Rachel's bedroom. Had gone in to see what was wrong and found her gasping her last as her blood soaked through her mattress and dripped onto the floor. Had called 911 and realized there was nothing anyone could do to save her. Had struggled to untie her and had covered her up so at least she'd be a decent corpse for the EMTs.

We took a recess before the cross-examination. When we came back in, Dave whispered to Clint, "He's going to try to get you to break down. Don't answer anything unless the judge directs you to." Clint nodded.

"Tell us about your mama's sex life. Did she have a lot of men in and out of the house?" Gilbert said.

"Objection!" said the D.A.

"Sustained," said the judge.

"Did she let you watch? Were you jealous?"

"Objection!" said the D.A.

"Sustained," said the judge.

"Isn't it true that you walked in on her after me and her got it on, and you cut her throat because she was a slut?"

"Objection!" said the D.A.

"Sustained," said the judge. "Mr. Gilbert, if you don't confine yourself to questions pertinent to your defense, I'll hold you in contempt," said the judge.

Gilbert smirked. "I'm just trying to show how it wasn't me that killed her, your honor," he said. "I just fucked her. She liked it fine. The boy musta killed her; he was the only other one there."

Through it all Clint sat pale and still, with his mouth firmly shut and his eyes locked on Gilbert as if he were drawing a bead on him.

Eventually it was over and Gilbert was ordered to sit down.

And we waited for the mercifully short deliberation until the jury returned and the foreman said "guilty."

And then we went back to my place.

A few days later Gilbert was sentenced to forty years in prison. He announced he was being railroaded and he swore to appeal, this time with the help of a court-appointed lawyer. The newspaper and TV reporters swarmed around Clint again, and again I did my best to run interference. With the help of Michael and some of Clint's other friends we faked them out and they chased the wrong car to the airport, as we went back to my place. Clint packed up his things and set his duffel bag and backpack by the door, ready to head back to Oakland the next morning.

We sat at my kitchen table, picking at cheese and crackers.

"Thank God it's over," I said.

"It's not over," said Clint. "He's going to appeal. And he could be up for parole in eight years."

"They're not going to parole him."

"They could overturn the conviction. He's crazy as hell. And he didn't have a lawyer."

"Clint, please stop doing this. He's behind bars where he belongs. Let it go."

"Easy for you to say," he said. "If you hadn't held me back in the damn courtroom I could have jumped him."

"And he could have killed you with his bare hands."

"Then at least it really would be over," he said bitterly.

I looked at him, sitting there brooding and talking about dying when his life had been bought at such a price, and suddenly it was more than I could stand.

I jumped up, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him out of his chair, turned him to face me. His eyes were wide and startled. He hadn't quite turned sixteen. Still maybe a half-inch shorter than me and a tad lighter. A lot of growing up to do, and all out of time to do it in.

"Listen to me," I said. "Tomorrow you'll be on a plane to California, and you'll never have to put up with me again, but tonight you're going to hear what I have to say. I know I'm nothing to you. Just some white trash your mama brought home because she felt sorry for me. But you need to hear this, and nobody else will ever dare say it to you. I saw your mama's body in the morgue. I know what that son of a bitch did to her and I know how much it must have hurt. She bore all that without making a sound because she wanted you to live." He turned his head away from me. I grabbed his hair and forced him to look at me.

"She did that for you," I said. "Don't you ever, ever dare to throw that away."

I was shaking with anger. There was no answering anger in his face. He looked remote and blank. I wanted to punch him. _Wonder where I learned that_, I thought. It made me sick to think about. I let go of him and turned away. The anger was too much, too hot and too insistent and it made it hard to breathe. I slammed the heel of my hand into the wall. Twice. Three times. The pain cut through the anger, a little. Better. Glad it was cinderblock instead of sheetrock.

I leaned my head on the wall and tried to just breathe. When I felt I could talk without crying, I spoke without turning around.

"I'm sorry. God knows you didn't need that."

He was quiet for a while, then:

"Actually I think maybe I did."

Another silence. I was too ashamed to look at him.

"You saw her? In the morgue?"

I closed my eyes and I could still see her. I nodded. "I know a guy who works there. Talked him into letting me in."

"Why?"

I wasn't going to be able to say this without crying. Damn it.

"Because I didn't want you to have to carry that alone."

He came closer and put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. There were tears in his eyes too.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He put his arms around me, gently and awkwardly. "I know." He gave a quick, embarrassed squeeze. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

"We both better get some sleep," I said. "Early day tomorrow."

He nodded.

"Good night," I said.

And the next morning I drove him to the airport, to take a puddlejumper to Atlanta and then Delta to Oakland. After I put him on his plane I walked down and met the guy Stavros had hired to replace me. His name was Greg; retired from the Air Force, still in the reserves. I told him I'd be glad to cover his training weekends, or pick up from him if he got deployed. He thanked me, and I went home to get my resume in shape.

* * *

**April, 1987**

It was seven months before I heard from Clint again. The return address on his letter was "Juvenile Justice Center, San Leandro CA". _Dear Jeannine,_ it began. _I fucked up._

It was blunt and unsparing. He'd gotten in a shouting match with another kid in the school parking lot. Some dumb thing about who shoved who in the hall. The other kid got frustrated because he couldn't get Clint to rise to his bait. So he started taunting him about his mother. And he said, "Yeah, I was with your mom last night. And she said to tell you how much she enjoyed it."

When they pulled Clint off, the other kid was unconscious and had a hairline skull fracture from where Clint had beaten his head against the pavement.

Clint was at pains to tell me that the kid didn't know, had no idea that Clint's mother was dead, didn't mean to echo Gilbert's words on the stand. He told me he'd waited till after he was sentenced to write to his victim and ask forgiveness. He didn't want it to look like he was trying to get off easy.

The judge, all things considered, was lenient. Six months in Juvenile, a year plus a month on probation; by which time Clint would be eighteen, and if he kept out of trouble, his record would be sealed.

_Please,_ he wrote, _keep an eye on Gilbert's appeal for me. And let me know what happens._

I went back to writing him every week. I kept him updated with the progress on the appeal (the conviction was upheld; Gilbert's defense team immediately vowed to take the appeal up to the Eleventh District Court). I told him all the news I could glean about his friends and his Scout troop. I shared funny stories from my new job as an apartment manager (it is astounding how many completely different plumbing disasters are possible). I described my rare flying gigs: my first flight around, over and eventually through a severe thunderstorm; my first landing in a thick fog; my first really, really airsick passenger. (I spared him the story about flying the corpse of a drowned vacationer home to Texas for burial. I still have nightmares about that one; turns out dead bodies, when exposed to pressure changes, make a surprising array of noises you'd rather not hear behind you in a dark cockpit.)

By midsummer, Clint was halfway through his sentence, and doing okay. He wasn't allowed to shoot, of course, and he'd missed the team trials, but his coach had written to him, and encouraged him to try again in '88. He'd been jumped once, but had managed to hold the other boy off without hurting him. He'd been able to keep up with his schoolwork, and thought he'd be on track to start senior year with the rest of his class, if the school would allow him to re-enroll. James thought it might be better to transfer to a private school, which Clint said he'd be okay with, but James's pick was a military academy. _It's his money_, Clint wrote, _so I don't really feel like I get a veto. But I hate the idea of being yelled at all day and having to just stand there and take it._

I wrote back to him. _I'll have a talk with James,_ I said. _I don't think he's giving you enough credit for keeping out of trouble in a very tense environment with loads of provocation. Don't forget you have your own money, and that Alexis is administering it, not James. Anyway, I'll try to get him to consider carrots as well as sticks. Not that he's likely to give my opinion much weight, but hey. I now officially have childrearing credentials. Diane came to live with me this week._

I'd gotten the call from Child Protective Services just as I was getting ready to take a honeymooning couple to the Bahamas. I had to scramble to swap flights among myself, Stavros and Greg to get everyone's assignments covered, but eventually we worked it out without pissing off the passengers too much.

Daddy had had some kind of psychotic break, or gone on a spree or something, and had beaten Mama so badly she was in the hospital. The social workers had been all ready to put Diane in foster care when one of her teachers called and gave them the information I'd had inserted in her file. Presto, family placement. Cheers all around. Except not. The keepers of uprightness and family values in Wayne County had a problem placing a kid with a (gasp) _lesbian_, even one who wasn't currently in a relationship. Mama wailed about how I was a heathen and a devil-worshipper. The social workers dithered about how I'd been "associated" with a notorious murder case. Blah blah blah. Fortunately, my income and living circumstances were significantly more stable than Mama's and Daddy's had ever been; they had police records, I didn't; and when they asked Diane whether she'd rather live with her long-lost big sister or with strangers, that got a great big "Duh!"

It was a scramble. I drove down and picked Diane up from the social worker (Mama refused to see me). I did some fast talking to my boss and managed to get her to swap me from a one-bedroom to a two-bedroom apartment, in exchange for taking on more maintenance duties. I moved myself and Diane into the new apartment in one frantic weekend, assisted by all the friends I could round up and bribe with pizza and beer. Then it was time to get Diane ready to enroll in school in the fall, with placement testing and shopping for clothes and school supplies and trying to get her immunization records and birth certificate and a pre-sports physical and some badly-needed dental work.

So all things considered, I didn't spare Clint as much attention as I could have. This gave me plenty of reason to kick myself later. If I'd ever gotten over kicking myself about Diane. Which I never did.


	7. Chapter 7

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Seven: Steal Away_

**July, 1987**

Having Diane with me was fun, at first. I tried to roll five summer vacations up in half of one. We went to the beach, of course. I took her up in one of Stavros' planes. We strolled down River Street eating ice cream. We got pedicures. We took carriage rides and trolley rides through the historic district. We ate Chinese and Indian and Korean and Moroccan food (with belly dancers alongside—not Sherry, fortunately; that would have been awkward). We ate funnel cakes and cotton candy. We went to the aquarium at Oatland Island and waved at the octopus to make it turn white. We went to the movies. We drove down to St. Marys and took the ferry to Cumberland and saw the wild horses. We had a great time.

I let her pick which bedroom she wanted, and pick out her own curtains and rug and bedspread. I took her to the mall; she turned up her nose at the bookstore but pleaded so charmingly with me to let her get her ears pierced that I figured, _what the Hell_, and said yes. I was sure Mama would be furious, but whose ears were they anyway?

My bank account was pretty well cleaned out when school started, and I was looking forward to a little alone time, as well as more blocks of time when I could predictably be available for the tenants. I was, of course, supposed to be available anytime for emergencies, but there was a good bit of routine maintenance work that needed to be scheduled in advance, so it was good to have that eight-to-three block to draw on.

The first few weeks went fairly well. Diane wasn't as upset as I'd expected at having to repeat sixth grade. She met some girls she liked; she asked a couple of them over and they seemed like nice kids. Several times that fall I woke up at night and heard her crying softly. The first time it happened I tapped on her door and called to her, but she didn't wake up. I went in and shook her gently by the shoulder and she practically fell out of bed jerking away from me, with a look of blank terror on her face.

"Whoa, baby. It's just me. It's okay, you're all right. Just a bad dream," I said.

She sat there shivering and breathing hard for a while, and then she said, in a harsh voice, "You can go. I'm okay. I don't need you to come in. I'm not a baby."

So after that I stayed out of her room. But I still woke up when I heard her, and I couldn't get back to sleep until she'd cried herself out.

Parent-teacher conferences were a shock. Her grades were pretty bad, C's and D's mostly. I sternly told myself that I hadn't been a typical middle-schooler, that school had been my refuge and release, as it obviously wasn't for Diane, that anybody would have a rough time with being taken away from her abused mom and turned over to a sister she barely knew instead. Her teachers were sympathetic for the most part, but they weren't pleased with her behavior; she tended to run with the bad kids, and she was beginning to get a name for picking on smaller, shyer girls.

I tried to talk to her about it, offered to help her with her homework or get her a tutor, suggested she try being kind to people who were already unhappy. She either mocked me or stared sullenly at the floor until I wound down, and then she said, "Can I go now?"

What the fuck did I know about parenting? I'd hardly gotten any myself.

When the nightmares kept on and I was sure it wasn't just homesickness, I made an appointment for her with one of the counselors at Armstrong's family clinic. They charged on a sliding scale, which was fortunate, because no way could I have afforded the market price. I went with her the first time, and she looked bored and gave the shortest possible answers, or just shrugged. After that I just dropped her off and picked her up. The most I ever got in response to my "How'd it go?" was "It was bullshit." After a couple months I gave up.

I offered to take her to church, but she said no, she hated church, it was all bullshit.

Gradually, things got worse. She stopped bringing her friends over; she always went to their houses and she pushed her return time later and later until I grounded her. Then she started sneaking out at night.

I bought her the best clothes I could afford. She stuffed them in the back of her closet, or traded them to her friends for sleazy pleather and ripped jeans, and went around looking like a B-movie streetwalker.

I started smelling smoke on her clothes and hair; she claimed it was just her friends' parents smoking in the car.

Then she started coming home smelling like liquor.

This went on for a year and a half. At Thanksgiving of her seventh-grade year, Mama wrote to her. Daddy was out on parole. He and Mama had gotten a divorce, and he'd moved in with his new girlfriend. Mama begged Diane to come back home. Diane begged me to let her go.

I did. And I'm sure Mama blamed all the changes in her, the clothes, the smoking and drinking and bullying, the bad grades and the nightmares, on me. Probably didn't notice that her cavities had been filled and she was up on all her shots for the first time in her life, either.

I sent them a Christmas card, but didn't hear back.

About that time Clint made a trip back to Savannah to sort through the things that had been left in storage when the house had been sold. He was nineteen, on winter break of his freshman year at UC Santa Cruz. He called me to come and meet him at the Hilton, where he was staying.

He stood up from his table in the hotel lounge, and he was taller than me. I grinned up at him. He gave me a tight half-smile back.

"Sit down," he said. "You want anything? I can't order you a drink, but you can order and I can pay for it."

"No thanks," I said. I glanced at the folder on the table in front of him. The tab was labeled "Clint" in Rachel's strong, graceful script.

"What's that?" I asked cautiously.

"It's the police report on my father's death," he said, flipping it open, and he looked me straight in the eye. "Do you know how he died?"

For a fleeting instant I thought about lying. But I didn't.

"Yes," I said. "James told me."

He glared at me. "When were you planning to let me in on this?"

"I wasn't," I said. "I figured it wasn't my call."

"Damn it!" he said, slapping the folder shut. "What else does everyone know that I'm too fucking delicate to be told?"

"Nothing, as far as I know," I said. "But listen, when I talked to James about this, it was about two weeks after Rachel's funeral. Not long after that they arrested Gilbert. And then for months and months there was all that crap with the competency hearings, and then the trial. When would have been a good time for us to bring this up?"

He turned his glare on the folder. Then he took a deep breath and let it out.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, I can...kind of see that. I just—I don't know what to do with this. Dad's death was never—Mom told me he died in an accident. It was like, oh, well, he's gone, that sucks, but there wasn't any...it wasn't anybody's fault."

"It still isn't," I said. "It was an accident."

"I know. I know. And the robber died in the shootout too. I just—I feel like I ought to do something."

"You still shooting guns?" I asked.

"Sometimes," he said.

"Learn not to miss," I suggested.

He snorted. "Well, there's always that," he said. And he bought me lunch.

We had a nice talk. He asked about Diane; I just told him that she'd moved back to Jesup when Mama had gotten well enough to take care of her. We talked about how relieved we'd both been when the Eleventh District Court had denied Marshall Gilbert's appeal, and the State Supreme Court had declined to hear it. Clint seemed to be enjoying college, and when he spoke about James there was real affection in his tone. I was relieved to see that at least one family wasn't a total clusterfuck.

**March, 1989**

Diane stayed with Mama till Spring Break, then showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night with a chipped tooth, a black eye and a lot of scrapes and bruises. She said she fell down some stairs. I called Mama.

"Hello?"

I was shaken by how weak her voice sounded, and by the realization that it had been nearly eight years since I'd heard it.

"Mama, it's Jeannine. Diane's here. I just wanted to let you know where she was."

"Is she all right?"

I hesitated. "She looks like she's been in a fight. She says she fell down the stairs. She doesn't seem to be badly hurt; I'm going to take her to to the walk-in clinic in the morning."

"It was that no-good boyfriend of hers," said Mama fretfully. "Let me talk to her."

I called Diane to the phone and went into the living room to give her some privacy. A few minutes later I heard her rummaging around in the fridge.

"You planning to stay with me for a while?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I guess."

I went and put fresh sheets on her bed while she fixed herself a snack.

The next morning I took her to the clinic. She had her no-big-deal attitude on, but when she came back out in the waiting room she was white as a sheet. I waited till we were in the car to ask.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"I'm pregnant," she spat. She sounded pissed, but looked scared half to death.

At barely fourteen, no way was she physically ready to bear a child, let alone emotionally ready to raise one. But I said I'd support whatever she decided. She looked at me like I was a pile of dog shit and said she wanted an abortion.

We didn't tell Mama. I drove all night to get her to the abortion clinic and I held her hand until it was done. And after we got home she told me she hated me, and I'd ruined her life. I said I was sorry I'd left her alone, that I hadn't come back for her after Mama threw me out. She laughed. "Is that the worst thing you think you did to me?"

And then she told me how Daddy had decided to make sure his second daughter didn't turn out to be a lezzie.

And how Mama had walked in on them and had taken a knife to him, and gotten beaten so severely she had to have surgery to repair her broken hip, and had to stop driving because she had absence seizures.

And then my beloved baby sister spat in my face, and told me to drive her to the bus station so she could go back home to Mama again.

And I did.

And the next day I signed up for taekwondo classes, so I'd have a safe place to hit things and scream. And I told Jackson I was ready to go anywhere Good Measure needed a pilot.

"How about Zaire?" he asked.

"What do they speak there?"

"French and kiSwahili, mostly," he said.

"Good to go on the French. How much time do I have to get started with kiSwahili?"

"Got a teacher lined up, any time you're ready. And Joanna's got an ex-State Department type to brief y'all on history and politics. We figure six weeks prep time, then head out."

"Who else is going?" I asked.

"Elizabeth, for medical. You can be logistics and transport. Do you know Veronica?"

I shook my head.

"She's our translator and our cultural liaison. She grew up there, and moved here with her parents when she was a teenager. And me."

"You'll mess up our hen party."

He smiled and shook his head. "Nah. I'm the snooty buyer. Y'all will be gossiping behind my back and making fun of me and getting better deals on everything than I do."

"Okay."

Just before the end of the six weeks, I got a call from my mother.

Diane was in jail, charged with burglary, and Mama didn't have enough money to bail her out.

I did, barely. I'd saved up almost enough to pay James back.

I wired Mama the money.

Diane jumped bail and was immediately rearrested.

I said "fuck it," and put my stuff in storage, and went to Zaire. I stayed there a year and a half. When I got back, Diane had just been turned down for probation.

I got re-hired at my old apartment manager job. I took a one-bedroom apartment. I started saving again, fifty bucks out of every paycheck. I promised myself that as soon as I'd paid James back, I'd start saving for a plane. I let Stavros and Greg know I was available as a substitute pilot. And I went back to taekwondo; and every night after class I hit the heavy bag until my knuckles bled.

**June, 1992**

The postcard was ridiculously hyperpatriotic: eagle, flag, dramatic rays of sunlight.

On the back was scrawled:

_Hey Jeannine, _

_Guess who made the fucking US OLYMPIC TEAM? _

_—R. H._

_P.S. I split an arrow in the second round. In the bullseye._

I called him that evening to congratulate him.

"He's out with friends," James said. "But I'll be sure to pass along your message."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm so proud of him. Of how he's turned out."

"Me too," said James. "There were times when it didn't seem likely to work out this well."

"You did a good job," I said.

He gave a short laugh. "Not that much credit due to me, actually," he said. "Listen, I got your check. You didn't really need to do that. I had it to spare."

"Use it to help fund Clint's trip to Barcelona," I said. "Or yours, if you're going with him."

"I wish I could," he said. "But you know, work..."

"Yeah, I know how it is," I said.

I saw Clint on TV, marching in the parade of athletes. He wasn't as tall as his teammates, but he was broad-shouldered and graceful and beautiful, his head held high, his smile bright enough to light up the whole stadium. I got teary-eyed, and I prayed that somehow Rachel and Colin could see what a fine man their son had become.

And then they lit the torch. With a fucking flaming arrow. And I laughed, and cried, and laughed, picturing the look on Clint's face.

I watched the Games every night, resenting the times I got called away by locked-out tenants and stopped-up toilets and loose dogs, hurrying back to the TV as soon as I could. NBC didn't do much archery coverage, but I caught a glimpse of Clint twice. I followed the scores in the paper right up to the semifinals.

Then there was a small item in the sports section of the Morning News:

**Barton Withdraws from Competition**

**U.S. Olympic archer and former Savannah**

**resident Clint Barton has withdrawn from **

**competition, dashing U.S. medal hopes. **

**Coaches had no comment.**

I called James. He hadn't heard anything.

After the Olympics, after the team returned to the U.S., James called me. "Have you heard from Clint?" he asked.

"No, why?"

"He didn't come home. I waited at the airport but they said he'd never gotten on the plane."

"Christ. What happened over there?"

"I have no idea. Please, if you hear anything from him, let me know."

"Of course. You do the same, please."

"I will."

But neither of us did.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Eight: Ain't Got Time to Die_

**Port Harcourt, Nigeria**

**February, 2002**

It had been a really, really long day.

Now the sun was going down, and a diverse group of local leaders who'd recently been at each other's throats were finally sitting down to listen to each other. The oil companies and their hired thugs had no idea there was a shadow NGO operating under their noses, working to reunite the parties they'd worked so hard to set against each other. It looked like nobody was going to go ballistic, and I was off duty until late the following day.

I'd done an eight-month stint in Port Harcourt the previous year, but this one was a short-term assignment. Helene had had a bad bout of dysentery and had gone home to recuperate, and I was relieving her until she was well enough to come back. I'd been short-hopping to several surrounding villages to bring supplies to our crews there and pick up the local women's products for shipment back to the states. The heat, after the chill drizzle of winter in Savannah, was suffocating. Earlier in the day we'd had one of the last harmattans of the season, bringing slightly cooler air along with a thick coating of powdery red dust. Now the wind had died down, but the dust still stuck to my scalp and lined my collar and gritted between my teeth.

I was renting a room on the outskirts of town. There was a crappy little bar a few streets over. I decided to go have a beer until it was cool enough and dark enough to try to get some sleep.

I walked in, got stared at for being a white woman alone, got stared at some more for ordering in Igbo instead of English, got stared at a little more for good measure, and turned around with my back to the bar so I could watch the door. Mostly out of boredom and curiosity, though I'd gotten out of the habit of sitting with my back to open doorways.

The beer was just barely cooler than room temperature. It tasted good anyway. I was about halfway through it when a movement caught my eye and I looked up. A stocky white guy with sandy hair had just stepped through the door; he was looking back over his shoulder so I couldn't see his face, but something about him rang a faint bell. He was short, maybe five-ten, but muscular; his fatigue jacket had the sleeves ripped off, the better to show this off. He turned around and our eyes met. I nearly fell off my stool.

"Hawkeye Barton," I said stupidly. "What the hell are you doing in Nigeria?"

His expression didn't change. He froze for the barest instant, and then he sauntered over to me and I began to think I'd made a mistake. A serious mistake. Clint Barton had moved like an athlete. This man moved like a predator, and his eyes were cold. He carried menace with him like a cloud. The pistol holstered on his right hip was almost superfluous. My spine froze and my belly muscles clenched as if they could ward off bullets or knives. The man smiled, a contemptuous, mocking smile that redoubled my fear, and as he came up beside me he reached out and leaned his left hand on the bar, blocking my escape. He leaned in close. I looked down to avoid his eyes.

"Jeannine," he whispered. "Stay still." And I saw the thin pale lines of the razor scars across his biceps. I almost wept with relief.

I kept my head down, kept my bird-frozen-by-snake posture, and whispered back, "What the fuck are you up to?"

"Never mind. All hell's going to break loose in here in a couple minutes. You need to get out."

"You come too," I said. "I have a plane, if that'll help."

He looked up from me and signaled the waiter for two beers. He looked back at me and smiled. "Where?" he murmured, and reached up with his right hand to play with a lock of my hair. He still had me fenced in with the other arm. I flinched in spite of myself. He kept smiling.

"Private airstrip about five klicks east of here, just past the slaughterhouse," I whispered.

"Okay," he said, and took his two beers from the bartender, tossing a ten on the bar. He took a swig of one, put the other one in front of me. I ignored it.

"You're about to punch me in the gut," he whispered, "and then make a run for it. I'll follow you in a while. If you hear gunfire, keep running. If I don't catch up to you before you get to your plane, get the hell out of here. Got it?"

"Sir," I said, only half-mockingly.

He made a sudden grab for my ass and I nailed him with a reverse punch to the solar plexus. It knocked him back a step and he wheezed "you fucking _dyke,_" as he grabbed for me again. I twisted away and ran like a deer.

There were whoops and some derisive remarks as I cleared the door and kept running. Five K is more than I can do in a sprint, but I saw no reason to start pacing myself just yet. I put my head down and made a dedicated effort to fly, plane or no plane.

I heard a motorcycle engine cough and catch behind me, and then two gunshots. I didn't look back. I kept running, and praying. I cut left into a side street, then right again, still aiming for the airstrip but hopefully out of the line of fire. I heard the motorcycle gaining on me, then it roared by me and slid to a stop. Clint was on it.

"Jump on," he said, and I did, grabbing him around the waist and tucking my head into his back. There were more shots behind us as he slewed the bike around and gunned it. He weaved left, then right, then yelled "Hang on," and took a hard, wide right turn. A gun boomed right next to my ear, then we straightened out and the engine screamed as Clint accelerated again.

No more gunfire. A few minutes later we screeched around the turn to the airstrip. "Which one?" he yelled.

"Red-and-white Cessna, down near the end on the left," I yelled back.

"Give me the keys," he said as he slid to a halt.

"The fuck I will," I said. "My plane. You're either copilot or cargo. Pull the chocks and get in."

He paused for half a second, then nodded and obeyed. I started running through the preflight at top speed. Gunshots again as the engine turned over. Clint dove through the door and banged it shut behind him, strapped in, and grabbed the second headset. I backed out, turned, taxied and took off, swearing in Igbo, French and kiSwahili as several holes appeared in the fuselage and one bullet starred my windscreen. Once we were airborne and half a mile downrange I took the time to put my headset on properly and looked over at my new copilot.

"You hit?" I asked.

"No. You?"

"No. Mind telling me what that was about? I get that I probably blew your cover. I'm sorry."

"You've been living an interesting life, apparently," he grinned.

"Same to you, Robin Hood," I said. "What—no, never mind. Just tell me where to take you." I scanned the instrument panel while he thought about that. Wherever the various bullets had ended up, they had apparently not messed up fuel, hydraulics or the electrical system. For small blessings give thanks.

"If you can get us to Malabo, I can get them to let us land," he said.

"You're on," I said. "But you owe me a ride back to Port Harcourt. I've got people I can't leave stranded."

He nodded. "I can do that," he said. He pulled out a cell phone and started texting.

I looked over at him. "How the hell are you going to get a signal out here?"

He gave me a wicked smile. "I have resources," he said.

God damn. CIA? Black ops? Surely not one of the oil companies. Rachel Barton's boy?

He glanced at me and must have read something on my face. He sobered. "I'm on the side of the angels, Jeannine," he said seriously. "I promise."

I nodded slowly. "I believe you," I said.

"You pack a decent punch," he said.

"I took a little taekwondo."

He glanced at my hands on the yoke and his mouth twitched. "And you speak Igbo."

I shrugged. "Couple days with a phrasebook," I said. "How much does it cost, where's the bathroom, you fuckers quit shooting at my plane. The basics."

"Can you get a message to your friends?" he asked. "It might not be safe for you to fly back into Port Harcourt after you left it with me. But I can get a substitute pilot for them."

"Yeah, I can."

"Good." He continued his text conversation, punctuated with an occasional sigh or snort of laughter. Finally he put the phone away. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'm a terrorist. You're a hostage. I'm making you fly into Malabo at gunpoint. When we get there, I'm going to walk out with you, and I'm going to trade you for a car and a sack of cash. Some of my guys will escort you to the U.S. Embassy, and from there you can contact your people. My guys will help you arrange transport for them, and get you wherever you need to go. Sound good?"

"Do you do this all the time?" I asked.

"Not any more than I have to," he said. "You okay?"

"Yeah. You scared the crap out of me back there, you know."

"I know. I meant to. Keep that feeling in mind when we do our little skit at the airport."

"Will do." I concentrated on flying for a while, then I said: "This work you do. Might it be something that would upset Mr. Putin? Because if so, I might know something you need to know."

He sat silent for a minute. "Neither confirm nor deny," he said at last.

"Okay," I said. "Let me tell you anyway, and if it's not useful just forget about it. When we got here, I was doing some maintenance work on my plane, out of sight from the tarmac but with the doors open, and I overheard a conversation. Long story short, this guy was bragging about how he'd raped one of his colleagues while she was sedated. Got my attention. Something about his voice sounded familiar, so I managed to get a look at him. He and the guy he was talking to were both in Dutch Shell uniforms, and they were speaking Dutch; but the last time I saw this guy, he was working for Gazprom, he was speaking Russian, and he was calling himself Vanya Chernenko."

"Does he know you?"

"No. I'm pretty sure he's never seen me, except maybe the back of my head. I'm strictly logistics and transport."

He looked at me speculatively. "And this work you do," he said. "Who are you pissing off?"

I smiled. "All kinds of unlikely people," I said.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"No."

"Fair enough," he said. He took his pistol out of the holster, emptied the clip but left one shell in the chamber. He saw me looking. "One for a warning shot," he said in explanation, "but no more in case of accidents."

I nodded. "Please don't get yourself killed," I said.

"Do my best," he said.

"Malabo tower should be in range in a few minutes," I said.

"Okay," he said. "Last chance for chatter."

"Does James know you're alive?" I asked. "He was frantic when you didn't come back from Barcelona."

"Yes," said Clint flatly. I waited, but he had nothing to add.

"Contact me," I said finally. "After. JDupree at caminando dot org." I spelled 'caminando' for him.

"I'll try," he said.

"No. Do it. Use a fake address or whatever but let me know you're alive."

"Okay."

"Thanks." I switched off my mike but kept the headphones.

He called the tower, and the hostage negotiations began. Eventually they gave us a runway. It was almost full dark now. I landed and we taxied to a stop under the glare of the lights. Clint fired a shot over the heads of the security detail and then got out of the plane with me as his shield, his pistol up under my chin. We waited. He and the security guys shouted back and forth a lot. We waited some more. Eventually a car pulled up and the driver got out with his hands raised. At Clint's gesture he pulled out a duffel bag, zipped it open, showed Clint the cash inside, tossed it back in the car. Clint backed toward the car with me, had me open the door, held me between himself and the guards as he got in and started the car. Then he shoved me away and peeled off, slamming the door. I hit the pavement and stayed down as the guards opened fire.

When he'd gotten almost to the end of the runway, there was a loud boom, and the car swerved abruptly and burst into flames. Sirens cranked up and a fire engine pulled out and proceeded, in no great hurry, towards the fire.

Some very nice, professional-looking, poker-faced young gentleman peeled me off the pavement and solicitously escorted me to the U.S. Embassy. They arranged a hotel room and an emergency visa for me, and let me use one of their computers to email my colleagues. I remembered, with an ache, Rachel's hospitality twenty years before.

I sat alone in my room, numb and frozen in the dark, while the red and orange flames bloomed again and again in my memory. I remembered his eyes; curious and bright in childhood; calm and steely on the witness stand; radiant at the Olympics; cold and threatening in Port Harcourt.

_Goodbye, Clint_, I thought. I tried, but I couldn't cry.

At four a.m. my cellphone chimed. A text from a blocked number.

**I'm not dead yet. —R.H.**

**P.S. A guy named Coulson will be **

**there soon. He'll look after you.**

* * *

**Dudley, Georgia**

**May, 2002**

I was hanging around the back of the crowd at my mother's graveside service, hoping nobody would recognize me, when I realized there was somebody else doing the same thing.

He was a little more conspicuous than me: a tall, good-looking, light-skinned black guy with an almost-military short haircut. He was one of maybe half a dozen people of color in the whole congregation. His sunglasses probably cost more than anybody else's best suit. His shoes probably cost more than some of the cars in the church parking lot. He wasn't wearing a suit himself, just a polo shirt and chinos, but they looked like they'd been tailored for him. And yet he seemed far less out of place than he should have. I watched him closely. He knew the words to most of the praise songs (more of them than I did). He didn't seem to be attached to anyone else in the group, but he seemed to be paying attention to the service itself, not to any of the other mourners. I'd thought at first he might be FBI or DEA, but if so he was very subtle about his surveillance.

I worked my way closer to him. He noticed. His casual glance over his shoulder at me turned into a more penetrating look. I looked back. Something, there was something familiar. Suddenly he smiled and flashed a dimple at the left corner of his mouth, and I got it. I stepped up next to him. "Donnie?" I murmured under the cover of a loud chorus.

He smiled again. "Nini. I thought you were dead, girl. Where've you been? Where's Diane? I've been looking for her."

"She couldn't come. Shhh." The song had ended and the pastor was holding forth at length on how my mama's worth was greater than rubies. There might have been two opinions about that, but I wasn't about to interrupt.

Eventually the preacher finished, and there was a chorus of "God is good" and "Amen" and people began hugging and gathering in little clumps to reminisce and commiserate. There was a general drift toward the fellowship hall.

"I'm sorry about your mama," Donnie said to me. "She was about the only one who ever spoke to us at these kinds of things."

"That's good to hear," I said.

"You staying for the reception?" he asked.

"No," I said. "They disowned me twenty years ago. I'm just here to pay my respects. I'm not about to make a scene."

"Buy you a drink?" he asked.

"Oh hell yes," I said.

"How far do we have to go to find one?"

I laughed. "About fifteen more miles down the road. Dublin."

"I'll follow you."

And so our little motorcade of two, my beat-up Taurus and his shiny rented Lexus, slipped away from the church and on down the highway.

"So," said Donnie, bringing our drinks to the table, "tell me how else you go about becoming a black sheep among the Duprees, other than by having too much melanin on your mother's side."

"Try being gay," I said.

"Whoa. Yeah, I can see how that would go over," he said, shaking his head. "What about Diane?"

"Federal prison," I said.

"Damn. What for?"

"I got back from a trip to Nigeria and found her cooking meth in my apartment," I said. "She was on probation at the time."

"She was living with you?"

"She used to. I got custody when she was twelve, when Daddy put Mama in the hospital. She went back to Mama for a while, but it didn't work out. She ran away, I took her in again, she ran back to Mama, lather, rinse, repeat. But this time she broke into my place while I was overseas."

He shook his head. "Man. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "Shit happens."

"So what were you doing in Nigeria? What do you do?"

"I'm a charter pilot mainly. But I was working with a charity group over there. Fair trade, selling local women's beads and baskets to rich ladies in Buckhead." I sipped my drink. "How about you? I was wondering whether another one of my kin was about to get arrested, until I recognized you."

He smiled, a little awkwardly. "I work for SHIELD."

"Who's that?"

"Um...sort of Homeland Security on steroids. And we don't stop at the border."

"So you're a spy? Are you gonna have to shoot me now?"

He gave the weary laugh of someone who has heard that line from everyone he's met for the past ten years. "No, no. Nothing secret about what I do. Stand here, don't let anybody through this door without an ID, kind of thing."

"Glamorous," I said.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. We have the hotshot special ops type guys too. There's this one guy...believe it or not, he shoots a bow and arrow."

"You're shitting me," I said, grinning on the outside while on the inside I was going _oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_. "What, did they go, 'what we really need is somebody who can pass a metal detector'?"

"No, no, they actually recruited him as a sniper. He's a hell of a shot with a gun too. The bow and arrow's just a sideline. But they tell me he's got all kinds of fancy high-tech arrows: explosives, poison—"

"Sleeping gas? Knockout arrows with a boxing glove on the end like in the comic books?" I giggled. "Where'd they find the guy, in a sideshow?"

"No, this is actually a good story. He shot up a police station."

"He WHAT? Donnie, this does not sound like somebody you want on your side."

"No, no, get this, he fires over a hundred rounds without hitting anybody."

"I thought you said he was a good shot," I scoffed.

"That's the thing. He didn't hit anybody. No ricochets, even. He had the shots lined up so precisely that all the bullets ended up embedded in wooden doorframes and things like that. He got close enough to about half a dozen cops to part their hair, but he didn't touch one of them."

"What was that about?"

"From what they told me, he was trying to get himself put in prison, because there was some prisoner he was out to kill. Anyway, one of our agents happened to get involved in the investigation—I never did hear why—and she dug a little deeper, and she came back and told her boss, _we need this guy_. And so they brought him in, and now he works for us."

"You ever met him?"

He snorted. "Hell no. Like I said, I'm just a jumped-up security guard. I'd like to, though."

"Think I'll pass," I said. "So what about the rest of y'all? Terrell and Uncle Don and Aunt Evelyn?"

"Mama and Daddy are fine. They're retired, living down in Tampa. Terrell's career Navy, coming up on fifteen years. He's stationed in St. Mary's. I'm actually headed down there to see him after this."

"Well, tell him I said congratulations and thanks for his service. If you think he'd even remember me."

"Oh, probably. He's not that much younger than me. I remember you reading to us all the time. Aside from Mama, you were the only one who ever did that."

I smiled. "I'd read to anybody who'd hold still long enough. Diane hardly ever would." I thought about how long it had been since I'd seen my cousins. I laughed. "Ask him if he remembers that Christmas when the dogs knocked over the turkey fryer."

He laughed too. "And you ended up chasing them all over the yard and getting totally covered in grease and dirt and pine straw. That was...memorable."

I raised my beer in a toast to Great Christmases Past. He clinked my bottle with his, then looked more thoughtful.

"And nobody ever asked who let the dogs out," he said. "Did you do that on purpose?"

I looked down. "Daddy used to call y'all 'the little niggers' when Uncle Don wasn't around," I said. "I was afraid he'd beat you."

I avoided his gaze, but I could feel the weight of it. "He beat you, didn't he," he asked.

I shrugged. "I was used to it."

The silence grew strained.

"Nini," he said quietly, "you could have come to us. Mama and Daddy would have taken you in. Diane too."

"Over my parents' dead bodies," I said. "I did think about it. When she threw me out. But y'all were so far away, and I wasn't sure...she went completely around the bend when she found out. I wasn't sure who else might feel the same way."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Water under the bridge," I said. I took a sip of my beer and changed the subject. "So, what have you done in the past twenty years? Married?"

"I was. It didn't work out. We managed to stay civil about it. I have two kids I see on weekends and Christmas. Jamie and Suzanne. Here, I have pictures." The kids looked about six and eight. The girl had his smile. "How about you?"

I shook my head. "Married to the work," I said. "I have a lot of really good friends, and I'll date somebody for a while, but it never seems to stick."

"Never too late," he said.

"Maybe not," I said, "but it's not really on my agenda. You know, that homosexual agenda you're always hearing about."

He snickered. "Buy toilet paper, take dogs to vet, overthrow Western civilization?"

"That's the one."

"Man, it's good to see you," he said. "Wish it had been a happier occasion." He pulled a business card out of his breast pocket and handed it to me. "Stay in touch, okay? Maybe we can get together for the holidays."

"I'd like that," I said.


	9. Chapter 9

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Nine: Honor, Honor_

**Nurota, Uzbekistan**

**January 2005**

Good Measure's latest project was going well.

There were four on the team: me, Elizabeth, Zahra and Tricia. On the surface, four middle-aged women: a pilot, a nurse, a translator, and an expert in textiles and jewelry, working with the women of the local villages on child health, and marketing their handiwork to the $500-a-plate-charity-banquet set back home.

What didn't show on the surface was that I was also a forensic economist. Elizabeth was also an epidemiologist. Zahra was a sociologist who specialized in religious extremist movements. And in addition to her MFA in textiles, Tricia had ten years in Naval Intelligence. All of us were at least conversationally fluent in Uzbek. Over the past three years we had established a delicate net of who knows whose nephew's wife, who overheard the men in the hookah shop talking about guns, whose grandson is best friends with the ambassador's chauffeur...

There was trouble coming here, soon, possibly on a massive scale. We hoped to head it off, or at least give the women and children a head start in escaping. With every shawl and necklace we traded information; safe houses, safe routes through the desert; caches of food, water and medicine; who could be relied on to help, whose notice should be avoided. Who was richer than his job could explain; who was handing out favors, new cars, Rolexes. Where fuel was stored; where ammunition and explosives were hidden. We weighed babies and handed out vitamins and condoms; we vaccinated kids, lent tiny amounts of money, spent hours chatting at henna parties. We kept careful records of the cash, the crafts and the medicines, but the most important things were said indirectly if at all and were never, never written down.

Women's work. Women's gossip. Women's worries. While the men were busying themselves with money, power, and weapons, with alliances and ideologies, we tended babies and bought pretty things to sell back home. And we listened. Quietly. Invisibly. We kept our heads down, our mouths shut and our hair covered. We had stayed off the radar here for three years by being beneath men's notice.

That was about to change.

They came for us just after dark, bursting into our rented house and dragging us out into the street. There was some sporadic shouting about Western anti-Islamist corruption but they seemed mainly to want to get us out fast and quietly. That was worrying. Had there been a mob, there would have been more risk of our being beaten or shot or stoned, but at least more people would have noticed. As it was, it looked like they meant for us to vanish.

Our friends would worry, and they would carefully gossip about what had happened to us, but gossip travels slowly over long distances. Unless whoever had grabbed us decided we were worth interrogating or holding for ransom, we might be too much trouble to keep alive for long.

They drove us far out into the desert, dragged us out of the car, handcuffed us and herded us into a little shack. A larger building apparently served them as a headquarters. I managed to get a long enough look at the night sky to at least work out which way was north. There were no light islands anywhere on the horizon that I could see, that might mark the locations of towns.

The first night we were pretty scared. It was cold in the high desert, and though we were modestly and therefore warmly dressed, it wasn't enough. We huddled together in a corner, talking quietly among ourselves, trying to figure out where we were, who had us and why. We really didn't have enough to go on; it was more to pass the time and keep calm than anything else.

This was my first experience of captivity, and Tricia's too. Elizabeth had been grabbed off the street in Mogadishu once, while working for Doctors Without Borders, and held overnight for ransom. Zahra's family had been kidnapped in Peshawar when she was a child, and her father and uncle had been shot. She was shivering pretty hard; I thought it might be shock rather than just cold. I scooted close to her, looped my arms over her head (handcuffs make it difficult to hug) and tried to keep her warm. The others huddled closer, bracketing us on each side.

Elizabeth hummed softly, something folk-songish in a minor key, almost under her breath, and I rocked Zahra slightly in time to the music. She leaned into me and the shivering grew less intense. When Elizabeth came to the end of her song, I picked up with "Blackbird." Tricia sang "Gimme Shelter." Elizabeth sang "Donna, Donna." I had just started "Stand By Me" when we heard footsteps hurrying toward the shack. I hushed and released Zahra, turning toward the door as it was roughly and hastily unlocked.

One of our captors, the tall one with the beard, slung the door open angrily. "No singing," he said. "No protest."

"I'm sorry," I said in English, and then in Uzbek, my eyes downcast.

"Stay quiet," he said, and slammed and locked the door.

So we kept quiet, kept our heads and eyes down when they were around, and conversed in whispers when we were alone. Days and nights passed. No one interrogated us; they seemed reluctant to have anything to do with us at all. I grew tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Our age, and the youth of our captors, worked in our favor. I think we probably reminded them of their mothers or aunts. After the initial grab, they were fairly respectful; no groping or abuse, and they fed us regularly, if not very well. They made sure we had clean water, and the bucket we used for a toilet was emptied daily.

We asked (very respectfully) what we had done to make them angry. They told us not to ask questions. They told us that if we obeyed orders and didn't cause trouble, we would be set free as soon as certain conditions were met. They didn't specify what conditions. I got the sense that they were taking orders from someone else, and that they had only the vaguest notion what they were doing.

On the fifth night, we were dozing in a heap on the dirt floor of our improvised cell, catching a little sleep despite the handcuffs, the cold, and the glare of the single light bulb that was always left on. Sometime after midnight, I woke up to the sound of the door rattling softly. I rolled to my feet and got between the door and the rest of my team. Stealth wasn't our captors' usual style.

The door opened a crack and he slipped in.

"God damn it," I whispered.

"Nice to see you too," he whispered back.

"Get out," I whispered.

"I will," he said. "In a minute. Anybody seriously hurt?"

"No. But you're about to get us all killed."

He rolled his eyes. "Jeannine, I have been doing this for a while," he said patiently.

Tricia, Elizabeth and Zahra were awake now. They watched with interest.

"We're always getting accused of spying," I said. "If you pull a James Bond, it'll poison everything we've ever done."

"I'm not going to," he said. "If you were in immediate danger, I could cause a propane tank 'accident' in the main house and get you out. Since you're OK, I thought I'd smuggle out a message for you. To whoever you want, but I'd suggest Amnesty plus your colleagues back home and the U.S. and Canadian embassies. Once word gets out that you're here, it'll be much harder for them to get away with hurting you. Sound good?

I glanced at the others, a quick visual poll. They all nodded.

"Got anything to write with?" I asked him. He pulled a little notebook and a pen out of one of his many pockets and pouches, and handed it to me. I passed it to Elizabeth.

"Five minutes," I said.

"Keep it legible, it's going on CNN," said Tricia.

Elizabeth smiled, wrote a couple pages, and passed the pen and notebook to Zahra.

I looked back at Clint. "Not going to write this down," I said.

"No problem," he said.

"Jackson Lewis. Teaches textiles at SCAD. Tell him, Fiona said the eels aren't poisoned."

He thought about that for a minute, then smiled. "Lord Randall."

I nodded.

"The goddamn SCA."

I nodded again. "Hell, we infiltrated the Nimitz."

He grinned at that, then sobered. "Jeannine—"

"Shh. We'll be okay. Or if we're not, that's okay too. We try not to lose people, but it does tend to generate sympathy."

He took my hands. "Be careful. Save the martyrdom for when there's really no other choice."

I gave his hands a squeeze. "I've been doing this for a while too, Robin Hood," I said. He pulled me into a brief hug.

I turned back to the others. "Done?" I asked. They nodded. Tricia handed me the notebook and pen and I added my bit, then gave them back to Clint. He tucked them away, and then all of us froze as we heard multiple footsteps crunching along the gravel path from the main building.

"Shit," I said.

Immediately, Clint pulled out his lockpicks and re-locked the door.

"We can distract them," I said. He nodded and tucked himself into the corner where the shadow of the open door would fall.

My colleagues had already sat on the floor in a circle, knees touching, leaving a space for me. I sat with them. I reached across the circle and held Tricia's hands; Elizabeth and Zahra were already doing the same. Tricia took a deep breath and began to sing:

_Keep your eyes on the prize,_

_Hold on, hold on..._

She had a beautiful, powerful contralto and she knew how to use it. Both her parents marched in Selma.

The rest of us joined her.

_Keep your eyes on the prize,_

_Hold on._

We could hear the footsteps speeding up as our captors heard us.

Here's where I have to rely on what I learned later, because I have no memory of it now.

The door flew open and two of the guards came in, night sticks swinging. I had my back turned to the door, so I didn't see Clint go; neither did they.

As was our habit, the others curled up and stayed still; when necessary, I got up and made trouble. I had enough martial arts experience to slip a punch, or turn my shoulder to block a hit, without being obvious about it; I was more muscular than my teammates, so I could absorb more force without breaking or rupturing anything. It was nothing out of the ordinary. We'd done this a dozen times, in various places, when trouble broke out. I maybe got up one or two more times than I normally would, to make sure Clint had time to get clear. But apparently I miscalculated, and one of them was a little more pissed off than I'd meant him to be, and he came up behind me when I wasn't ready.

I do remember Tricia's beautiful eyes, and the worry on her face as I went down into the dark.

[Author's Notes: Jeannine's password refers to the Scots ballad "Lord Randall". The aircraft carrier U.S.S. Nimitz was once home to the SCA Shire of Curragh Mor; the name means "big boat".]


	10. Chapter 10

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Ten: Soon I Will be Done With the Troubles of the World_

VCUP M^W# !& J#^NN!N#

VCU ^%# !N T## N0$P!T^L !N T^$N%#NT

T0)^V !$ J^NU^%V 25. 2005,

I woke up in a strange place with lights too bright and too much noise and confusion.

For what seemed like forever, all I wanted was to be left alone so I could sleep.

YCUP M^W# !& JE^NN!NE

YCU ^%# !N T#E #0$P!T^L !N T^$#%ENT

T0)^V !$ J^NU^%Y 31, 2005.

Nothing made any sense. I couldn't understand anyone. I couldn't make them understand me.

I couldn't find the others anywhere.

Every time I tried to stand up I fell down. Then people would scold me and put me back in bed.

My head had been shaved and there was a little hard sore spot at the back of my skull, on the left, low down, with stitches in it. I kept asking what had happened but nobody would answer.

YOUP NAWE !& JEANN!NE

YOU A%E !N T#E #0$P!TAL !N TA$#%ENT

T0)AV !$ FEDPUAPY 9, 2005.

Gradually I recognized the language the people were speaking. Uzbek. I had the feeling I once knew it.

Even the ones who spoke English weren't making any sense. They kept asking weird questions.

I remembered my name: Jeannine. I recognized it on the whiteboard that faced the foot of my bed.

I remembered that I was a student in the criminology program at Armstrong State in Savannah.

I couldn't remember how I got here, and I didn't know where "here" was.

My hands looked wrong, the knuckles enlarged and rough, the tendons prominent, like they'd aged overnight.

I kept crying and crying and I couldn't remember why. There were people I was supposed to be taking care of, but I couldn't remember who they were or what had happened to them, I just knew it was my fault.

YOUR NAME IS JEANNINE

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL IN TASHKENT

TODAY IS FEBRUARY 13, 2005.

The nice little dark-haired nurse had brought me a cane. She held my left arm and gave me the cane in my right hand, and together we tried to get me to walk across the room. I made it about three steps before my feet got tangled up and I fell. She made a little "tsk" noise and helped me up. We tried again.

After four tries I was exhausted and frustrated and I sat down on the floor.

"This is bullshit," I said. "I'm done. Call my friends and tell them to come get me."

The little nurse babbled in Uzbek. I still could only pick out maybe one word in ten.

"Speak English, damn it," I said. Suddenly it was all too much and I lost it. I threw the cane across the room.

"Where are my friends? Goddamn it, where are they? Are they dead?"

The nurse—I guess she was a nurse—shrugged helplessly.

"I have to go. I have to get out of here. Where are my clothes?" I scrambled to my hands and knees and used the wall to help me stand up. I stumbled toward the door and jerked my arm away from the nurse when she tried to stop me.

The nurse called for help, the three big guys came, and they tied me to the bed. Again.

And they gave me a shot. Again.

And I fell asleep.

YOUR NAME IS JEANNINE

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL IN TASHKENT

TODAY IS FEBRUARY 15, 2005.

"Jeannine?"

The quiet voice woke me up and I opened my eyes to see the man sitting by my bed.

I remembered fear. And anger. A hard muscular body pressed against my back and the muzzle of a gun pressed into the soft flesh under my jaw. And fire. And wanting him to go away, go away, before something horrible happened.

I yanked my arms inward to my chest, and drew a sharp breath; I was no longer tied down. I rolled out of bed and stood up, shakily. I picked up my cane and I swung it as hard as I could at his head. When he ducked, I went for his eyes. When he grabbed my hands I kicked at his groin; when he twisted aside I picked my feet up off the floor and tried to sling him off-balance. He was too strong, too fast, too good and finally I just screamed and screamed and screamed and kicked and flailed and bit and spat and clawed until the orderlies got up their nerve and dragged me off him. They dragged me back to my bed and strapped me down and I felt the sting of the needle and hoped I wouldn't wake up.

YOUR NAME IS JEANNINE

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL IN TASHKENT

TODAY IS FEBRUARY 19, 2005.

"Where am I?"

"Tashkent. Uzbekistan." I looked over. Clint was sitting by my bed. He looked tired.

"How'd I get here?"

"You were working with Good Measure. Your team got kidnapped. You got hurt."

"Where are the others? Are they OK?"

"They're fine. They weren't badly hurt. They got deported. They sent messages for you." He handed me a sheet of lined paper. I sat up and squinted at it until the letters quit dancing. Painstakingly I made out short, handwritten notes of reassurance from Tricia, Elizabeth and Zahra. I looked again. The paper was soft and worn, ragged-edged, and frayed on the fold lines, as if it had been folded and refolded many, many times. I felt a chill. I looked up at Clint.

"How many times have we had this conversation?" I asked him.

"Several," he said gently. "But this is the first time you've asked that question."

I started shaking. "I'm brain damaged," I said.

He put a hand on my shoulder. "You're getting better," he said.

"Please," I said, "get me out of here."

"That's what I came for," he said.

The next several hours were a confusing blur. I got dressed in regular clothes, clothes I didn't recognize, jeans and a sweater and warm boots, and a parka for later, for outside. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been outside. Clint had a passport and visa for me. I couldn't follow his conversation with the doctor; they were speaking Russian, and my Russian had never been all that good. Now it was mostly nonexistent.

He drove me to the airport and walked with me, matching his pace to my cane-assisted hobble, out to a small jet. Sleek, black, elegant. Something like a Learjet, but I couldn't place the design.

"Oh. Beautiful," I said. "Is she yours?"

He chuckled. "No. I borrowed her from work."

"Lucky bastard," I said. He smiled.

He helped me up the steps. My knees were so weak I don't think I could have made it without him. I vaguely remembered being able to sprint up steps like these. I wished I could remember when, or where, or why.

"Where are we going?"

"Frankfurt first, for a workup. Then depending on what the docs recommend, someplace stateside."

"Clint, I can't—I don't have any insurance. I have hardly any savings. I have no way to pay for any of this. Not even what's been done so far."

"I've got it covered, Jeannine. Don't worry."

A worker rolled the steps away and Clint closed and latched the door. He glanced at me. "How you doing? You want to ride back here where you can lie back and sleep, or would you rather be in the cockpit?"

"Cockpit. Please. But don't get mad if I fall asleep anyway."

He smiled. "Not a problem."

I followed him to the cockpit and strapped in. "God, what a beauty," I said, running my eyes and hands over the instrument panel. I put on a headset. I'd already forgotten where he'd told me we were going. I decided to trust him. Like I had another choice.

He prepped, spoke to the tower, fired her up. Takeoff was smooth, sweet and powerful. I sighed with admiration and envy. The runway spun out from under us and the ground dropped away with impressive speed. Despite the exhilaration, my head drooped and my eyes started shutting of their own accord. Clint glanced over at me.

"Go ahead and catch a nap," he said.

"Thanks," I murmured.

Some time later I jerked awake, on full alert, my heart pounding. "Shit," I said. "Diane."

"Diane's all right," he said quietly. "Don't worry. She's safe. Go back to sleep."

"I can't remember shit," I said fretfully.

"You will," he said. I thought at the time he sounded a little sad, but I was too sleepy to pursue it.

I slept, and woke, and slept, and woke, and then we were landing. I flinched from what seemed like hordes of uniformed soldiers with sidearms, but they let us pass without a challenge. Clint stayed close to me, again letting me set the pace. I was stiff and achy from the flight; my head was killing me; and there was too much movement and too many faces and voices. If I hadn't had the support of Clint's arm I'd have fallen.

I ended up in an exam room, wincing from the bright lights and completely failing to grasp what the nice young guy in the white coat was asking me. But apparently Clint did, because he said "TBI" and the nice young guy nodded and dimmed the lights and started speaking much more softly and slowly.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asked.

"Jeannine Dupree." I kept my eyes on the floor. I kept my hands still. I kept my head down.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Some kind of hospital. Military? U.S.? But I think this isn't the U.S." I was careful not to sound angry or upset.

"Do you know today's date?"

"It's two thousand five. Springtime, I think. I'm sorry, I don't know the date." I worried that I wasn't saying the right things. Where was Clint? He'd been here a minute ago. I was afraid to look for him, afraid to ask about him.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. They wouldn't tell us." I was crying now, and shaking. "Please let me go."

"Do you know who brought you here?"

"No. No. I don't know him." And now I was truly, truly afraid, because I remembered vaguely that I'd said his name in the wrong place and he'd, he'd, there had been a fire, and I couldn't think clearly enough to evade the traps, and I was well and truly sobbing and rocking and crying "Oh God, Rachel, I'm sorry," and the nice young man wrapped a blanket around me and said "drink this" and like a fool I did.

YOUR NAME IS JEANNINE DUPREE

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL IN FRANKFURT

YOU ARE RECOVERING FROM A HEAD INJURY

TODAY IS FEBRUARY 22, 2005.

Over the next few days I gradually managed to remember where I was. Some days I had to look at the signboard four or five times before breakfast.

They did x-rays and MRIs. They asked me who I was and where I was and what day it was, but they carefully avoided asking me anything I didn't want to answer. They made me try to walk down the hall without the cane, try to stand on one foot, try to touch my nose with my eyes closed, try to count backwards from 100, try to repeat lists of words. They tested my vision and hearing and reflexes. They gave me pills and injections, but nothing that knocked me out or made me feel more disoriented than I already did.

Around my left wrist was a metal ID bracelet with a stylized eagle on it. I'd never seen it before, as far as I could remember, but the doctors seemed to look askance at it as if it made them nervous.

YOUR NAME IS JEANNINE DUPREE

YOU ARE BEING TRANSFERRED TO RALEIGH NC TODAY

YOU ARE RECOVERING FROM A HEAD INJURY

TODAY IS FEBRUARY 26, 2005.

The nice young doctor very patiently explained to me that I was going back to the U.S. for treatment, that everything had been paid for, and that I wasn't in any trouble. I think he told me five or six times, because I kept forgetting. He also wrote it down for me and put it in a clear plastic I.D. badge holder with a lanyard around my neck, so I would keep seeing it and could read it again.

In the same container he put a handwritten note.

_Jeannine,_

_Your friends are fine. Your sister is safe. _

_You were hurt, but you're getting better. _

_It's going to be OK. Trust me. _

_I'll visit you soon._

_—R.H._

On the back of it was a little sketch of the same stylized eagle I was wearing on my wrist.

Clint was alive.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter 11: Oh, Fix Me_

**Raleigh, North Carolina**

**March, 2005**

It's an interesting experience, having your health care paid for.

I felt sort of like I had in college, when I had that incredulous sense of _you mean I can learn as much as I want?_

In this case it was therapy. Occupational therapy, physical therapy, cognitive and memory therapy, trying to retrain my broken brain and uncoordinated body to some semblance of normal function.

"Normal" being a relative term.

Some things couldn't be fixed. My short-term memory was shot all to hell, and the neurologist told me frankly it would probably never get much better. The only solution was to adapt: write everything down, organize my life around a predictable routine, avoid unfamiliar places and situations.

Give up my work.

Good Measure had always depended on that unrecorded, undocumented, sometimes even unspoken web of relationships, hints, understandings, and pieced-together bits of seemingly unrelated information. It was as far beyond me now as opera singing or neurosurgery. I would never, ever be able to do again what I had done so well for the past nine years.

Everyone was unanimous that I couldn't afford to take another hit in the head. That meant no more martial arts. Ever. And nothing that might put me at risk of a bad fall: no rock climbing, motorcycle or horseback riding. Bicycling was a grey area; it depended on where I'd be riding, how much traffic, and so on and so forth.

My balance was so bad I couldn't walk across the room without a cane. The word on that was much more reassuring; my PT said it was much too early to predict how much equilibrium I'd recover; it might well be that I'd get it all back. She said the same about my reflexes and coordination. When I finally got up the nerve to ask whether it was possible I'd fly a plane again, she frowned and flipped through my chart. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it. Her expression lightened.

"I can give you a firm 'maybe' on that," she said. "There's nothing in here that would rule it out. Let's see what happens."

The permanent memory loss was, thankfully, limited to the time immediately before the injury and two weeks following it, more or less. I remembered seeing Clint come into the shack; I didn't remember what happened next, or how I left there. I remembered waking up in the hospital—the hospitals—multiple times, but my recall for what happened there was extremely vague.

The pain was not that much worse than I'd experienced before, at various times. The headaches were pretty bad, and my neck hurt a lot, but I could cope. I had episodes of vertigo, and I tended to see double when I was tired. I slept poorly at night, with frequent, incoherent nightmares, but since I was able to nap between therapy sessions it wasn't that big a deal.

The emotional effects were...complicated.

I was moody, irritable, easily startled and easily confused. Occasionally something ordinary would happen, like someone coming up behind me without my noticing, and my heart would start pounding and I'd break out in a sweat. My tolerance for noise, clutter and visual distraction was very low. It took me days, many days, to learn the names of the therapists I worked with, and even then if they covered up their nametags I'd get the wrong name about half the time. I had trouble following conversations with more than two people. I was depressed most of the time, but it was hard to tell how much of that was brain injury and how much was a perfectly rational reaction to having my life's work kicked out from under me.

But at least for now I had a job. Get well. Or as well as I could get, between now and the time the money gave out, or the time the therapists decided to discharge me. So: therapy. Three to four hours a day, and they encouraged me to walk or ride a stationary bike as much as I could between sessions, to build up my endurance.

I dropped into bed exhausted, not only at night but at mid-morning and mid-afternoon too. They had me on a handful of assorted pills, once or twice a day. I could never remember what any of them were or what they were for. I was too tired to care.

The other patients, probably all ex- or current military, diplomatic or intelligence agents, didn't speak to me much, beyond "good morning" and "salmon croquettes _again_?". The therapists only gave orders, asked about symptoms, and cheered my efforts.

I missed my friends. But they'd hardly be allowed in here to see me. Clint had gotten me in here, no doubt pulling all kinds of mysterious strings, and I'd probably disappeared into an information black hole.

I'd reckoned without Tricia.

I looked up from my institutional plastic tray of institutional plastic lunch and there she was.

"This seat taken?" she asked. I burst into tears and hugged her.

"How did you get in here?" I asked.

She smiled. "_Camino se hace caminando, chica_," she said. "I still have friends from the old days. And your buddy with the little notebook, he dropped me some intel." She looked significantly at the bracelet on my wrist, and smiled at me.

_Oh, Creator of the Universe_, I prayed as I hugged her some more, _bless Clint Barton and keep him all the days of his life. Forgive his sins, pay his debts, steer his arrows to their targets and get him a date with anyone he wants. Amen._

Tricia and I went back to my room and shut the door and talked and talked. She told me in detail what had happened the night I'd gotten hurt. She told me how our captors had panicked when I was struck unconscious; they'd fled in the only car, and she and Zahra and Elizabeth had carried me into the main house and kept me warm until help came a few hours later. She told me how the police had whisked us all off to the hospital in Nurota, then how I'd been airlifted to Tashkent and the rest of the team had been deported when some local imams had raised a fuss.

I took notes so I wouldn't keep asking the same questions; but God, it was hard, hard to write things down. The last time I'd done that it had cost me my family. This time? I knew so many secrets it was hard to think of anything I knew that wasn't a secret, anyone I knew who I might not accidentally betray by letting one fact, one name, slip out.

I took notes anyway. I had to.

Tricia also told me that Clint had found her—thanks, no doubt, to his "resources"—and let her know I was okay, and that he was getting me out, and then later he had let her know where I'd ended up.

She promised to visit me every day. She promised to bring me some decent food. And she kissed me goodbye. On the lips.

I was pretty sure she'd never done that before.

I was pretty sure I would have remembered.

**Savannah, Georgia**

**August, 2005**

After I was discharged I took a bus home to Savannah.

In my pocket was a check from the estate of James Barton, for ten thousand dollars. So now I knew why Clint had disappeared from Frankfurt. And I knew how I'd be able to pay bills for at least a few months.

Jackson met me at the bus station and gave me a long, fierce hug. When he backed up he looked me over like a wall hanging he was about to bid on.

"How are you?" he asked. "Really?"

"Really and truly, I'm okay. Physically," I said. "I'm still trying to get my head around...retiring."

"If there's anything any of us can do, you know all you have to do is say the word," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Could you run me by the credit union, and then by Enterprise? I need to rent a car."

"Sure," he said. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"I'm in funds," I said, "so I have a room at the Hilton for a week. I can extend that if I need more time to find an apartment. Thanks, by the way, for keeping up the payments on the storage unit. I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it. You planning to stay in town?"

"Yeah, I think so. Probably."

Once I had my check deposited and my car rented, I checked into the hotel and collapsed for an hour. And then I looked up Stavros.

Greg was still working for him, and gave me a polite nod as I passed him. Stavros was much less polite and much more welcoming.

"What the hell happened to you? You look like crap."

"You should see the other three guys," I grinned. "How are you, Stavros?"

"How am I ever? Business sucks. What you doing here?"

"I came to learn to fly. Again."

His eyebrows went way up. "What the hell you talking about?"

"I got hit in the head. My brains got scrambled. It was two months before I could walk without a cane. My memory's still not good. Stuff I already know isn't so bad. Learning new stuff? Remembering what I came in the room for or what I need at the grocery store? Pffft, gone. I need to learn to fly again. I was hoping you'd take me back as a student. Oddly enough, I have plenty of money, so name your price."

"Greg can teach you. Standard rates. Ten percent off, friend of the management."

"I don't want Greg. I want you. How much?"

He scowled. "Why me?"

"I told you. I have money. I can afford the best."

"Where'd you get the money?"

"Insurance settlement."

He scowled some more. "I don't teach much any more," he said.

"Good. Then you'll have plenty of time for me and my stupid mistakes. Please, Stavros."

He heaved a much-put-upon sigh. "Okay. Seventy-five bucks a lesson."

I shook my head. "Ninety-five," I said. "This is going to be harder than you think."

He shrugged. "Okay. Where you want to start?"

"At the beginning. Ground school. And also: do you need a hand with maintenance? I have money for now, but eventually I'm going to need a job."

Stavros snorted. "I'm getting too old crawl around under things. Sure, okay. But let Greg do his own planes. He's touchy."

**February, 2007**

Someone had been keeping tabs on me, because the day after I got my recert as a commercial pilot, I got two text messages.

From Tricia:

**Way to go, chica!**

**Coming down to SVH**

**next week. Can I stay **

**yr place?**

That one got a quick **OMG yes** from me. Tricia had been in Bhutan since just after I'd gotten home. I'd missed her horribly.

And from "undisclosed number":

**Congrats, when can you take **

**me up? I hear St. Thomas is **

**lovely this time of year, and **

**such a fun runway! Have **

**job offer for you. —R.H.**

**p.s. don't worry about replying,**

**I'm in your car.**

"Don't you ever get tired of the spy shit?" I asked him a few minutes later.

"Nope. The money is excellent, the women are gorgeous, and they never make me wear a suit," he said, grinning up at me from the passenger seat, which he'd reclined nearly all the way back.

I sighed. "So much for James Bond," I said. "Pity. You'd look great in a tux. Daniel Craig, eat your heart out. So. Job offer?"

"How do you feel about Eastern Europe?" he asked, sitting up and readjusting the seat.

"Depends on where," I said, sitting down in the driver's seat. "Prague? Sure. Chechnya? Not so much."

"Budapest?"

"What's the job?"

"I'm meeting a friend over there. We're doing a little touristing in the area and for various boring reasons we don't want to use our usual transportation arrangements. Can you hang out in the general area and be ready to fly us out on a few hours' notice?"

I gave him a suspicious glare. "Is this likely to involve shooting?"

He smiled. "Not your part of it," he said.

I sighed. "Okay. I'll pack the deluxe first aid kit," I said.

"Aren't you going to ask how much it pays?" he asked.

"You've been generous so far," I said. "What am I going to be flying?"

He smiled again. "We'll get to that," he said. "Can you come down to Brunswick for a couple of weeks?"

"Not till week after next," I said. "I've got company coming."

"That works," he said. "I'll send you some tourist info, and week after next you can come down and get checked out on the plane."

Tricia's visit was a revelation.

I hadn't been with anyone since I'd been hurt; and before that I was in Uzbekistan for three years, surrounded by Muslim fundamentalists who were already suspicious of me as a Westerner, an unbeliever, and a woman, so no way was I going to start anything there. Before that, I dated a few people for a week or two, and a couple of times I'd gone out drinking and dancing and ended up spending a night with someone, but, well, let's just say it didn't bother me that I was hazy on their names and faces now.

But Tricia...dear God.

I'd known she was beautiful and smart and funny. I learned now that she was gentle and passionate and fiercely protective. And what I learned, most of all, was that having a partner you trust completely is one of the world's great aphrodisiacs.

I was nearly forty-three years old and I felt like I'd been put into an entirely new body.

It was like flying. It was like when I'd first learned to float in the ocean, when I'd finally been able to surrender to the waves, like being rocked in the lap of the planet herself. It was like being thrown in taekwondo by a really good partner, when I felt myself float lightly through the air and my body high-fived the mat in a perfect breakfall.

It was glorious. I cried all over Tricia the first few times. She got a little worried.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I sobbed. "I'm better than fine. I'm fucking amazing. I'm...holy Jesus Christ, Tricia."

She laughed and hugged me.

_I could have died in that goddamn desert and I never would have felt this_, I thought. And I cried a little more.

Letting her go, heading down to Brunswick to meet Clint and get ready for Budapest, was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But Lord knows, I needed the money.

**Budapest, Hungary**

**April, 2007**

I had just ducked into the airport bathroom when the custodian followed me in. She was a tall young black woman, lovely and willowy. She bumped shoulders with me and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am, how clumsy of me!"

"It's nothing," I replied, and it wasn't until she grinned at me that I realized she'd spoken in Igbo and I'd replied in the same language.

"I knew it was you," she said.

"I don't think I know you," I said cautiously.

"No ma'am," she said, "but I remember you well. My uncle owned a slaughterhouse in Port Harcourt. One day I saw you land your plane on the mayor's airstrip. Before that day I didn't know that women could fly airplanes. After that day I started getting ideas. And now I am here, studying engineering at BME."

"Congratulations," I said. "You must have worked very hard."

She nodded. "I did, ma'am, but I have also thought of you often. And now the Lord has given me a chance to do you a favor in turn."

"Oh?"

"I was mopping in one of the offices yesterday," she said, "and I had just caught sight of you leaving the hangar, when a man came up and asked the clerk on duty if you had filed a flight plan. The clerk said that was none of his business. And the man said, 500 euros says it is my business, and your business too. The clerk said, no, you hadn't filed a plan yet. And the man handed the clerk some money and said, here is half of the 500 and you get the other half when you call this number and tell me the flight plan when she files it." She grinned. "Neither of them thought I could understand Hungarian. Because I am Nigerian, and a woman, and a custodian, and so I am invisible. I learned that from your people in Good Measure, ma'am."

"My name is Jeannine Dupree," I said, "And you can call me Jeannine. And thank you very much for telling me this."

"My name is Goodness Etomi," she said. "And you are very welcome, Jeannine."

"May God bless you in your studies," I said.

"What will you do now?" she said.

I smiled. "I will file a flight plan," I said. "But it will not be the one I would have filed before."

"Is there anything else I can do to help you, Jeannine?" said Goodness.

"Yes. If you would be so kind. You can wait until about 5 p.m., and you can call the police tip line in Szolnok—I'll look up the number for you—and tell them you heard someone would be flying in tonight, shortly after midnight, with a shipment of drugs. Can you do that?"

She grinned. "I'd be happy to," she said.

"Thank you again," I said, and hugged her.

Once we'd parted ways, I texted Clint.

**Crap. Have serious mech trouble.**

**On yr own for pickup. Phone failing.**

Then I pulled out the SIM card and tossed the phone in the trash. The card went in a different trash can at the other end of the concourse.

Then I filed my flight plan: Budapest to Szolnok, to land at 12:23 a.m.

I was glad I'd brought the deluxe first aid kit.

* * *

There were two top stories in the next day's news:

_Shootout Leaves Four Dead; Two Assailants Sought_

_Drug Tip Leads to Arrest of American Pilot_

I hoped Clint and his friend would forgive me, both for abandoning them and for the damage the drug search did to their plane.

Tricia came to see me, lawyer in tow, a few days later. Since the search turned up absolutely nothing, not even a caffeine pill, the police grudgingly let me go without filing charges. They didn't offer to pay for the damage to the plane, alas. I told them someone would be along soon to get it out of impoundment.

Tricia was quiet until we were nearly all the way back to her hotel in Budapest.

"Interesting times," she said. "My girlfriend gets arrested on an anonymous tip after flying to a podunk city in the middle of the night with no passengers and no cargo. Meanwhile, there's some shooting going on in the capital, and word is that one of the shooters fits the description of the Black Widow."

"The who now?" I said.

"Black Widow, aka Chornaya Vdova, aka Natasha Romanov, and about a zillion other names. She used to be Russia's top assassin. She disappeared last year. Then she resurfaced in the U.S., only now she's working for an organization called SHIELD. One of our agents managed to recruit her."

"Sounds like a good time not to be in the capital," I said innocently. "So what's an ex-Russian assassin doing in Budapest?" I asked.

Tricia sighed. "A whole hell of a lot of people would like to know that," she said. "Some of them were involved in searching your plane. Or whoever's plane that was."

"It was a loaner. I haven't seen any assassins, Russian or otherwise," I said. Inside my pocket, I had my fingers crossed. "But can we go back to the first part of your story?"

"What part?"

"The part where you called me your girlfriend."

She smiled. "You got a problem with that?"

"Nope," I said.

We spent a lovely day and night getting reacquainted. At breakfast the next morning, Tricia's phone beeped. She glanced at it and scowled.

"It's for you," she said.

The text read:

**Hi Jeannine. Interesting **

**mechanical trouble. Glad **

**you're OK but WTF?**

"Mind if I answer this?" I asked Tricia.

"Be my guest," she said.

I typed:

**What color shirt am I wearing?**

The reply was immediate:

**Blue/white stripe. Busted.**

I sent back:

**Stairs.**

Then I erased the whole exchange and handed Tricia back her phone. "Excuse me a minute, darlin'," I said.

I waited in the stairwell. He came down the stairs quickly and almost silently, till he got to the landing I was on. I think I managed not to flinch. He gave me the same quick, assessing glance I was giving him. "Your friend OK?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Good," I said, and breathed a little easier. "I'm sorry I left y'all hanging. Someone bribed one of the airport staff to get my flight plan. Luckily, a friend tipped me off. I figured they were most likely after you. So I did my best to lead them in the wrong direction, and I ditched my phone to keep from leaving a trace back to you in case they grabbed me."

"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?"

"Because you'd have felt obligated to rescue my sorry ass, and I figured you had enough on your plate."

He didn't deny it, but shifted ground. "You could have gotten killed."

I shrugged. "Anonymous drug tip. Cops were there when I landed. Would have been pretty risky to shoot me. Sorry about the plane, though."

He shrugged in turn. "Cheaper to repair than me or my friend. Okay. I was going to buy your ticket home, but Tricia beat me to it."

I smiled. "She's quick that way."

"Take care, Jeannine."

"You too."

I got back to the table before Tricia had time to get annoyed with me. I signalled the waiter for a refill of my coffee.

"So, everything okay between you and the International Man of Mystery?" she asked.

"Honey, you know I don't give a damn about men," I said. "Let's talk about something more interesting. Damn, these Hungarians can sure make coffee."

"The strudel's pretty state-of-the-art too," she said. "Listen. I'm jealous."

"I told you—"

"Not like that. Of the help you've been getting. I haven't had a chance to do my part yet."

"Brought me a lawyer. Played the Get Out of Jail Free Card. Bought me a plane ticket. Or so I understand."

"That asshole. That was supposed to be a surprise."

I shrugged. "Well, thank you very much. I appreciate not being at the mercy of the intelligence community."

She grinned. "Who says you're not?"

"You're retired," I said.

"Nobody really retires from this business," she said. "For example, I feel I should definitely be keeping tabs on certain suspicious characters. Clearly the most efficient way to do that is to stay close to you." She took my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine. I smiled, admiring the dark/light, yin/yang effect, and kissed the back of her wrist.

She sighed. "God, that feels good. Three goddamn years in fucking Uzbekistan pretending not to have the hots for you. It's good to be in a civilized country."

I looked at her, startled. "You could have said something."

"In-country? Not a good idea, _chica_. You know the walls have ears."

"Yeah. Some of them are ours. But no, I meant after."

"When you were in the hospital with TBI? Uh-uh, sweetheart. I wasn't about to make a pass at you when you were that messed up. Not fair."

"Well, I'm all here now. Or as all here as I'm going to get. Take your best shot," I grinned.

"Marry me," she said.

"Jesus," I said, then ran out of words. After a while I said, "Okay, that was a pretty good shot."

"And?"

I hesitated. Her face fell. She gently released my hand. "Oh," she said.

"No, wait," I said, and grabbed her hand back. "Tricia. Wait. Please. Does this have to be yes/no, right this minute? Because I'm scared, but that doesn't mean I'm not interested."

"How about, move in with me?" she said cautiously.

"That could work," I said. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Fairbanks," she said. "It's where I grew up."

"Wow," I said. "Cold."

"Ever been there?"

"Nope. Actually the furthest north I've ever been in the U.S. was Raleigh. And I was pretty much stuck indoors the whole time."

"You're kidding. Never been to New York? Boston? Seattle? San Francisco?"

"Nope, nope, nope and nope. I'm a hick."

"We'll have to work on that," she said.

"Actually, first I have to work on making a living," I said ruefully. "Much as I love you, I don't want to be your kept woman. And my last job kind of fell through."

"Yes, well, as it happens, that goes back to what I was saying about being jealous. It's my turn to support your recovery," said Tricia.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. One of the interesting facts about Fairbanks is that there's a hell of a lot of work for small-craft pilots. And one of the interesting facts about this particular point in time is that I know one who's getting ready to retire. And I also have a little nest egg that might cover the down payment on his airstrip, hangar and two planes."

"Oh Jesus," I said, and for a moment I couldn't breathe.

"Jeannine? You okay?"

I was crying but I didn't care. "I'm okay. I'm—I'd just—I'd given up on ever owning my own plane. It just kept not happening."

"Well, now it can," she said, and kissed me. "And that's whether you want to move in with me or not, _chica_. Because I love you, but also I owe you. We all do. And the others said if you felt weird about taking money from me, they'd cover it. Not just Elizabeth and Zahra, but everybody."

"Oh hell," I said. "Sounds like I'm outnumbered."


	12. Chapter 12

**I'll Fly Away**

_Chapter Twelve: I Am Bound for the Promised Land_

[Author's Note: some of the events in this story are described from a different point of view in "Resilience I: A Door That Locks Behind You".]

**Fairbanks, Alaska**

**September, 2012**

When I got a text from Clint that said **I need a favor**, I answered **You got it** without asking any questions.

Amazingly, it was a totally routine request: fly two passengers from Fairbanks to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and back. Well, not totally routine; he did ask if he could pilot the plane. But since I know he can fly pretty much anything with wings, that wasn't really an issue. I cleared my schedule as fast as I could and met him and his fellow-passenger at the Fairbanks airport.

"Jeannine, this is Natasha. Natasha, Jeannine."

Clint hadn't been kidding about the gorgeous women. This one nearly knocked me over. Red hair, flawless skin, intense blue eyes; a lithe, muscular body; delicate, graceful hands; packing at least one pistol and probably a knife—Jesus God. _That_ Natasha? Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, the deadliest assassin in Russia's arsenal—

—and the unnamed SHIELD agent who had brought her in and turned her would be my boy Clint Barton. God in heaven.

And this was the woman I'd dropped, along with Clint himself, and left them to find their own way out of a live-fire zone.

"Oh Lord," I said, and it was genuinely a prayer. "Listen, about Budapest—"

She gave me a penetrating once-over. Probably reading my entire life history, blood type, pulse rate and taste in women.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "I don't need to know."

"Okay, but this flight's on the house," I said. "And the one after that. And if you need anything else, just ask." I was babbling, but at least she didn't look like she was planning to kill me immediately. She could have; they certainly didn't need me now that they had my plane. Christ, whatever magic Clint had, I was grateful for it. I focused on my preflight check and tried to keep from shaking to pieces.

Over the next few hours, as we left Fairbanks behind and headed out to ANWR, I calmed down and started paying attention. The weather was beautiful and Clint was handling the plane well, so I was able to spare some attention for him. Natasha was behind me (Jesus God), but I could see Clint without being too obvious about scoping him out.

He looked terrible. Almost as bad as he had after Rachel's death. He had that same shut-down look I'd gotten to know so well. He had several fading bruises on his face and hands, and what looked like a bite mark on his forearm. Normally at the controls of a plane he was relaxed, even contented. Not today.

I ran my first encounter with Natasha back in my head. I'm not much for looks myself—"retired roller derby" would be about right, though I don't have any tats—but I have had the experience of approaching a straight couple and having the woman give me that dog-guarding-her-bone look. "Back off, bitch, he's mine." Familiar territory.

Natasha had been more like Secret-Service-guarding-the-President. "Bitch, any bullet you have for him's going to have to go through me, and you better be sure the first one drops me." Entirely new ground.

Well, whatever had happened to him recently, it looked like he was in good hands. Just as well, because anything that could chew Clint Barton up and spit him out was way out of my league.

We flew on in silence for a good long while.

"Sometime in the next hour," I said at last. "So I'll have enough fuel to get home."

"Okay," Clint answered. "Where's a good place to set down?"

"Turn ten degrees east," I said. "You'll see a stream in about four or five minutes. There's a pretty level area on the other side."

"Roger that," he said. "Can you pick us up in five days?"

"Sure. How about ten a.m. on Saturday?"

He glanced back at Natasha. She apparently approved.

"That'll be fine," he said. He flew on for a while, then apparently saw the stream well before I did, as he began a slow descent. He circled once to get the lay of the land, then brought us down with one small bounce.

"Need more practice, Robin Hood," I said in mock disapproval.

He actually smiled a little. "Yeah. More props, fewer jets."

"More flying, less shooting," I suggested.

"And less being shot at. Thanks, Jeannine."

"Any time." I turned to Natasha. I was about to do a supremely stupid thing. It had taken me most of the flight here to get up the nerve. I met her eyes. "Nice meeting you. Maybe another time we can compare notes. Inside and outside perspectives on SHIELD, sort of."

She picked up on that immediately. I saw the spark of interest; I knew she'd meant for me to see it. "I'll look forward to it," she said.

I helped them unload, then I waved goodbye and got the hell out of Dodge. My shoulder blades itched for a good half-hour after takeoff. I was nearly back across the border of the Refuge before my heartbeat settled back to normal and my palms quit sweating.

I spent the next five days shuttling the usual hunters, fishermen and hikers back and forth between Fairbanks and the bush. I missed Tricia. She was visiting her family in New Haven. I imagined her reaction when I told her who I'd been ferrying around. Then I imagined keeping it a secret from her. Then I decided I'd be an idiot to try. Finally Saturday rolled around and I went to collect my very interesting passengers.

Their camp was right where I expected it to be. I circled, gave a wing-tilt, and set down. They hefted their first load and met me as soon as I stopped rolling.

"Good trip?" I asked. Clint nodded. He looked more or less human, now. The bruises had faded and he'd relaxed out of the braced-for-the-next-hit posture he'd had before.

"Headed back to Fairbanks?" I asked. He didn't answer, but glanced at Natasha.

"For the night," she said. "Then I need to have a talk with a guy in New York."

I took the copilot's seat again. This trip, Clint was just as silent, but more present. When Natasha got a text, he alerted immediately; but apparently it was nothing critical.

When I shook hands with Natasha, she passed me a little slip of paper. I glanced at it after they'd left. It said _arachnid at starkindustries dot com_.

That night I emailed her.

_Would it be possible to meet face-to-face? I'll be passing thru Logan week after next._

She replied within a few minutes.

_Sure. I'll buy you a drink. You pick the bar, day, and time._

I made sure my will was up to date, just in case, before I flew out to Boston.

This had to be the strangest girl-talk session of my misspent life. We met, she ordered, we sat down. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather and our respective trips to get here.

She looked so normal. I couldn't reconcile the pretty, petite woman across from me with the killing machine I'd seen on the TV replays. I'd been deep in the bush during the attack on Manhattan, and for days afterwards I'd only had radio and email to connect me to the outside. But eventually I'd caught up with the rest of the world. Those images were vivid enough to stick even in my fragile memory: Iron Man, Thor, the Hulk, Captain America—and Clint and Natasha. Fighting off aliens. It was hard to adjust to.

Not surprisingly, she quickly cut to the chase. "You have something you need to tell me," she said.

I nodded and took a steadying breath.

"How much do you know about Clint's past?" I asked her. "His childhood?"

She shrugged. "Just what's in his file. Orphaned early, abusive foster home, ran away with his brother to join the circus..."

I was so caught off-guard I burst out laughing. "The _circus_? Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle. And to think how hard we tried to get him into a pair of tights when he was eleven." I looked her in the eye. "One hundred percent of that is bullshit. Clint's an only child. His dad died when he was five; he was hit by police fire during a shootout after a bank robbery. Clint's mom was raped and murdered when he was fifteen. Clint found the body. To be precise, she wasn't quite dead when he found her."

"And you know this how?" she asked.

"I was there. I was the one he called to pick him up from the hospital after Rachel was killed. And later, I saw her body in the morgue. And I handed him off to his uncle, who took care of him till he went to train for the Olympics."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"The man who raped and murdered Rachel is still alive. His name is Marshall Gilbert. Back in '92, after whatever happened in Barcelona, Clint disappeared for almost three years. The next time he surfaced, he tried to get himself imprisoned so he could kill Gilbert. Someone in SHIELD smelled a rat; they disappeared him and recruited him; sounds like they also rewrote his history. I imagine you know a lot better than me what he's been up to since then."

She nodded.

"Just before I flew the two of you to ANWR, there was an escape attempt from the state prison in Reidsville. Gilbert was involved. He didn't get out, but it was close, and he obviously had help from outside. I know Clint's been busy lately; he may not have heard about this yet. But he will. So, anyway, to get to the point: I can't think of any reason why an aging scumbag in a Georgia penitentiary would be worth anything to anybody—except one. I think he'd be damn good bait if you wanted to go after Clint. And I'm telling you this because I'm afraid Clint won't; and somebody needs to have his back."

She nodded again. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said. "Hope it helps make up for Budapest."

"We're good," she said.

"Thanks for the drink," I said, and stood up to go.

"May I ask you a question?" she said.

"Sure," I said.

"What are you doing in Boston?"

My smile was probably a little twisted. "I'm getting married."

She looked surprised. "You didn't invite Clint?"

"I did. He sent regrets. For both of you. I figured—well, ask him about Nigeria. And Uzbekistan. Especially Uzbekistan."

"Hold on," she said, and pulled out her phone. She typed rapidly and hit "send" with particular emphasis. Less than a minute later she got a reply. She glanced back up at me. "Day after tomorrow?"

I nodded. "Three o'clock. St. John's in Harvard Square."

"We'll be there. And thank you for the invitation."

And so at Tricia's and my wedding, the guest list was even more interesting than Good Measure would account for.

Donnie was there, in a wheelchair. Before I had a chance to exclaim and ask what had happened, a voice behind me said, "Dupree?" and Donnie and I both turned to see Clint staring at us.

"I'm an idiot," he said. "You two are related?"

I snorted. "And you with a merit badge in genealogy."

Clint and Donnie exchanged a two-handed handshake that seemed way warmer than just working for the same agency would explain. Donnie's glance at me was a complicated blend of _I underestimated you_ and _Uh-oh, I've been leaking intel_. Natasha looked amused by the situation in general.

I called Tricia over with a glance and introduced them. "Tricia Chandler, Natasha Romanov," I said, and stepped back a tad.

They regarded each other like cats, for two long seconds. Then Tricia held out a hand.

"Welcome to the clear," she said. "It's scary at first, but you get used to it."

Natasha smiled. "Thanks," she said.

"Donnie—I'm sorry. Don," and he grinned a no-hard-feelings grin, "have you met Natasha?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," he said winningly, "but I've seen the highlights reel. And I'm honored to meet you." He sketched an odd gesture, brushing two fingertips over his heart like an abbreviated salaam, and added, "For more reasons than one."

While the SHIELD mini-reunion continued, I led Tricia out to dance to "I'm Your Moon." Later, I sighed in admiration as Clint and Natasha danced with each other, and then Tricia and I each got to dance with each of them. Donnie, whose endurance wasn't so hot, split one dance between me and Tricia and then collapsed back into his chair. I brought him some champagne.

"Most weddings don't double as multi-level intelligence summits," he said, still trying to catch his breath.

"Most people have less interesting friends than I do," I said, and went to dance with Stavros while Tricia danced with Jackson.

But even the most interesting friends couldn't tempt us to put off our wedding night for very long. We cut the cake, threw our bouquets and garters (we both had both) and left our interesting friends to amuse each other.

**Drabble epilogue**

_for Sar-kaz-m, whose review came at just the right time_

"Watch the pattern," said Clint.

"Okay," said Natasha after a moment. "Simple."

"After the first time, two variations: anyone can jump in at any point, cut another dancer, and take their place. No physical contact. Or, either at the beginning or the midpoint of the tune, a couple can jump in at the head of the line. That turns all the Couple Ones into Twos, and the Twos into Ones."

Natasha grinned. "Machiavellian folkdance. I like it."

"And also," said Clint, "when they do it for real, it'll be twice this fast."

The DJ cued up "Personal Jesus."

"Let's go."

* * *

[Author's note on the drabble: there's this dance called Hole in the Wall that's popular in the SCA. It's danced by pairs of couples in a long line. Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" fits the pattern of the dance, but is about twice as fast as the original music. And there's a custom called "sharking" that...well, Clint describes it pretty well. I would love to see the havoc these two would wreak.]

[Author's notes on music: Searching on YouTube for the chapter titles will bring up some beautiful things.

The song that Clint and Jeannine are listening to in the bardic circle is "Ballad of Bedivere", by the late, lamented Jed O'Connor (Master Jed Silverstar). As far as I know, the only recording of it is an insanely rare LP called "Merlin's Song", but there are still people in Meridies and Trimaris who could sing it for you.

"I'm Your Moon" is by Jonathan Coulton. You can hear it on the composer's website, or on the albums "JoCo Looks Back" and "Thing a Week Four". It's a love song from Charon to Pluto (the ex-planet, not the god). Captain Valor does a great American Sign Language version on YouTube.

Final author's note: Thanks to everyone who's been reading this thing and has stuck with it. It's been fun. Now I'm going to go read some books, but I'll be back!]


End file.
